The Traitor's Child
by Bluemoonriver
Summary: Our favorite characters and some newcomers navigate war and intrigue 16 years before the Disney film.  Paris is under attack, and friends can be indistinguishable from foes - or vice versa.
1. Behind Every Great Man

_Three years after the prologue of the film._

Frollo pulled his hands away from his face and glanced at the top chamber of the hourglass. He wondered if he could get away with not speaking until the last grain had fallen through. Making a game of it was the only way he could survive these confrontations.

Lady Agnes knew all her son's methods of evasion. She snatched up the hourglass and turned it upside-down, restarting his time.

"Don't be a child, Claude," she said. "I'm not asking you to marry the girl. Just let her come and see the gardens. We must be good neighbors, you know. You haven't even been properly introduced."

Frollo ran his fingers through his prematurely gray hair, pressing his skull so hard that he tugged the skin. "I've met her at least five times."

"What are you talking about? I haven't even told you her name."

"The only respectable family that you've never formally introduced me to is the Bertauts. It's that insufferable Margaret girl."

Lady Agnes raised her eyes to heaven. "The great legal mind. Very well, what could you possibly have against the girl?"

Frollo thought of the last Feast of St. Valentine. Margaret, with her bugged eyes and freckles, had sidled up to him after church and confessed her participation in some heathen ritual. Something about putting an apple under her pillow and eating it outside the next morning. If she didn't get sick, he would be her true love. She was so proud of her fortitude that day. She nearly died of fever two weeks later.

"Couldn't you find a girl who wouldn't be an embarrassment to any man unfortunate enough to be her husband?"

"That's quite unfair. I'll have you know, I consider more than fortune and status when I keep my eyes peeled for a suitable match. Margaret's a saint; there isn't another girl in all France who would put up with your moods."

Frollo smiled out of one side of his mouth. That much was true. The girl was a perfect doormat. "You know it's not just the girl. I object on principle."

"I won't hear another word about the Church, you understand? The Church is for half-wit younger brothers, for young men with no inheritance. Father Danois would tell you the same. I don't think it's a Christian thing at all for a son to treat his own mother in such a way, entering some pokey monastery and leaving all the family property to distant relatives." The evening sun through the leaded windows gave Lady Agnes a halo. "Especially after she's survived your own father. It's not as though I'll have any more sons to take your place."

Frollo sneered. "It's times like these I realize how much you wanted a girl. You could have ordered her to marry anyone you wanted. Then you could find a suitable manager for your estates."

Lady Agnes closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Claude, I ask so little of you. . . ."

"I never said I wouldn't see the girl." Frollo concealed his desperation behind the impassive stare he'd been cultivating for so many years now.

"Oh, Claude." Lady Agnes embraced her son, then pulled away and held him by the shoulder. He met her gaze by focusing on her long, thin nose and avoiding her eyes. "Remember, Claude. I wouldn't introduce you to a young lady if I didn't think she was worthy of you and this house. I also know where your gifts and strengths lie. You have a great passion for holiness, but the Church isn't the only way to seek that calling. There's a wicked world that needs men to uphold the law of the Church. And you've already secured such a high position in the world. 'To whom much is given-'"

"Don't quote Scripture at me!" Frollo snapped.

"Very well. But think about what I've told you." Lady Agnes was wise enough to know when she could advance the troops no farther. She left, and Frollo could feel the room expand. He opened a window and let the breeze blow away all traces of his mother's rosewater scent. Then he caught the scent of the roses blooming outside the window. The house was encased in roses now. They crowded the paths, climbed the walls, and drove their roots into the masonry, causing it to weaken and crumble. Frollo tore off one of the blooms and crushed it in his fist.

Somewhere in the forest beyond the garden wall, a wild falcon screeched. Frollo concentrated on the sound. It came again, and was joined by a second cry. He thought of his own birds, and how many weeks it had been since he had taken them out on a hunt. Lady Agnes had passed on to him her mania for falconry, and he was surprised that, in all the time he had been home, she had not yet suggested they go out together, as they used to do so often, before he had taken his judgeship in the city. Perhaps this visit from Margaret would be their excuse.

The wild birds screamed again. As if their cries were intelligible to him, Frollo suddenly smiled and placed his fingertips together. If Lady Agnes didn't suggest a hunt, he certainly would, for it had just occurred to him that there might be ways to make even a visit from Mademoiselle Margaret tolerable.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Classic Disney films are marked by their music. Unfortunately, it's nearly impossible to find Broadway-style songs for an original story, unless you lift them from a musical, in which case you're stuck with a song that's tied to another story. Instead of trying to create a coherent soundtrack, I thought it would be fun to share a mish-mash of pieces I associate with different chapters. This works better than you might think-the Disney soundtracks, like most movie music, borrow heavily from famous works ("Hellfire" is probably inspired by "O Fortuna" and the medieval "Dies Irae" melody, which appears in _Hunchback_ after Frollo kills Quasimodo's mother). Many of the tunes here would work as part of a film score. Others are just fun, and serve as "inspiration" pieces rather than proper film music.

I'll try to include a selection every time I publish, but that's not always possible, so keep checking chapters that don't have a song listed. Eventually every chapter will include at least one recommendation. Let me know in the reviews what you think of the selections, and feel free to recommend your own.

**Musical Selection for Chapter 1:** "If I Were a Weapon" by Suzanne Vega. A clever song about domestic arguments and the tactics people use to make a point.


	2. Random Acts of Meanness

**Musical Selection: **Allegro Non Molto (1st Movement) from Summer, "The Four Seasons" by Antonio Vivaldi (A strange piece that starts out soft and lilting, then schizophrenically explodes. It's dark, frantic, and eerie by turns, reflecting the unpredictable summer storms.)

If you're not sure what this is, see the end of updated Chapter 1, Author's Note.

* * *

Pale Lady Agnes on her white horse smiled serenely, like the tapestry maiden who tamed the unicorn. Beside her rode Frollo, smiling with equal dignity but less serenity. The keeper, a dumpy man with a wart on one side of his nose, trudged out of the mews* with a hooded falcon on one arm. Frollo left his mother's side to meet him.

"All done as I instructed?" Frollo asked.

"Just as you said, M'Lord," the keeper replied. "But I've never heard the like of it. You want them to be hungry, but to starve a bird for that long-"

"Do you intend to lecture me on my own amusements?"

"Certainly not, M'Lord." Frollo slipped his long fingers into the leather glove and took the bird on his arm.

Lady Agnes called out. "Tell them to bring the rest of the birds; they're almost here."

Frollo's giant black horse plodded back to the Lady's side. She raised an eyebrow and looked over her son's black and purple attire. "You might have dressed for a hunt, instead of for the bench." Frollo sneered and turned his attention to the approaching party.

Five figures on horseback and three on foot were making their way up the hillside. At the head of the procession rode Lady Bertaut and Margaret. Frollo noted with disgust that Margaret's head was completely uncovered, her blonde hair in a braid. He would have expected an eligible young noblewoman to present herself with more dignity. When she caught him looking at her, she waved and hallooed. Lady Bertaut swiftly pushed down her daughter's hand. Frollo suppressed an acerbic chuckle.

"We're delighted you could join us," said Lady Agnes. In front of her hosts, Margaret's ebullience diminished. She waited for her mother to speak.

Lady Bertaut's manner mirrored that of her elegant hostess, though it was clear that, like her daughter, she was working to suppress her innate cheerfulness. "The pleasure is all ours. The weather has been so delightful, and yet I never get outdoors on my own. Of course, there's been a great to-do at home, what with My Lord's preparations."

Lady Bertaut prattled the entire way about her husband's impending journey and all the inconveniences it meant for her and the family. Yet she never came around to mentioning her husband's destination or reason for leaving. Frollo and Lady Agnes each found themselves assuming that the other was privy to this information.

The summer day was unseasonably brisk, cool in the shade and drowsily warm in the sun. The wind brought a constant change of light and shadow as it visibly moved the clouds like the painted silk backdrop of a masque. Margaret rode by Frollo's side and made intermittent attempts at conversation.

"When I was little," she said, "I used to call days like this 'no weather,' because when it's this nice, you don't really notice the weather at all, do you? It's not too hot, or too cold. I think that heaven must be weather like this every day, don't you? Or would that get too boring?"

"I've never given it a moment's thought," Frollo said in a sepulchral monotone.

"Really? How funny!"

"What do you mean?" He would have liked to strangle her with that braid for laughing at him.

"Oh, I don't know. I guess it's just that you're so . . . everyone knows you're very spiritual. So I thought you must've imagined what heaven's like."

"I believe one should think about how to get there, and not waste valuable time dreaming up a lot of nonsense about it."

Margaret murmured in agreement and rode on in silence. Frollo's bird waited on his arm, its head darting and twisting constantly, a strange contrast to Margaret's, which sat calm and motionless.

They rode out of the trees and into an open field of high brown grass, the family's best hunting ground for quail. Margaret stroked her bird.

"I think I'll let everyone else go first," she said.

Frollo seemed elaborately concerned by her reluctance. His whole demeanor shifted from the harshness he had maintained throughout the journey. "I'm sure you have an excellent bird, and besides, it's almost impossible to come away without catching something. We've never come away empty from this spot."

Margaret blushed and smiled. "I'm just not that fond of hunting, really. I like animals."

Frollo couldn't keep his eyelids from twitching, but this flicker of frustration was all but imperceptible. "But you won't see when they close in. If you like, I'll retrieve the bird for you. We wouldn't want you seeing anything that would upset you, but you really must join in. It's the only courteous thing to do."

Margaret glanced at Lady Bertaut, who was already releasing her bird. She knew she couldn't hold out for long, once her mother realized that she was hanging back. Even more persuasive than this, however, was the figure of Judge Frollo leaning over her with a smile that, if not quite the nicest smile she had ever seen, was at least a smile in the technical sense. And the recognition that he was smiling, at her, for the first time since she had met him, banished all her qualms. She removed her falcon's leather hood and released the bird with a wave of her arm.

Frollo followed suit. His bird-unnaturally dark for a peregrine-rose into the air on a madcap, zig-zag course. On its ascent, it brushed against Margaret's bird. The offended bird cried out, causing its dark companion to respond with a vicious screech and a swipe of its talons. Stunned, Margaret's bird flapped and struggled to regain equilibrium. The dark falcon dove after it, screeching as if in pursuit of prey.

The hunting party crowded around Frollo and Margaret. "What in heaven's name-?" Lady Agnes exclaimed.

"I don't know what's happened," Margaret said. "Did I do something wrong?"

Lady Bertaut laid a protective hand on her daughter's shoulder and turned to the others. "You don't think we're in any danger down here, are we?"

"I could shoot them down, M'Lady," one of the boys eagerly offered.

"Don't be a fool," Lady Agnes said. "Waste two good hunters to stop them fighting? We'll see if one survives."

"That'll be the black one, M'Lady," the boy said.

He was right. For a moment the two birds were indistinguishable, locked together and silhouetted against the high noon sun. Then Margaret's bird, with a final flutter, wavered and plummeted to the ground. Margaret leapt from her horse and rushed to the spot. The falcon lay with its eyes open and unblinking, one wing bent and broken. Margaret stretched out a shivering finger to stroke its feathers, but pulled back, unable to touch the dead form. Frollo's shadow covered her back.

"Father gave him to me," she said softly.

Lady Agnes dismounted and wrapped her arm around Margaret's shoulder. "You poor thing. What a terrible start to the day. I can't tell you how sorry we are. Of course we'll go back at once; you've had a dreadful shock. I promise we'll make it up to you, my dear."

"It's quite alright," Lady Bertaut said. "These things happen. It was a dreadful accident, that's all."

"Yes," said Lady Agnes, glancing at Frollo as she walked Margaret back to her horse. "Most unfortunate." Frollo's falcon had returned to his arm and was tearing at a hunk of rabbit meat in the Judge's hand.

* * *

*Mews: A building for hunting birds, like a cross between an aviary and a stable


	3. Tete a Tetes

**Musical Selections:** Minuet by Luigi Boccherini (Refined but a bit little silly, for the garden.) and Adagio from Autumn, "The Four Seasons" by Antonio Vivaldi (The creepy scheming song; I defy you to listen to this one without getting goosebumps.)

(For the whole story on musical selections, see bottom of Chapter 1, Author's Note.)

* * *

Frollo wasn't sure why, but Margaret's visit was still going much too well for his liking. She seemed to think that she was somehow responsible for the accident, and her every movement seemed calculated to convey an apology. As they strolled the garden that afternoon, she walked slightly behind Frollo and stopped every few paces to smell a different rose.

"I think the red ones smell best," she said. "What do you think?"

Frollo pretended not to hear and stationed himself closer to the open window. Inside, Lady Agnes was talking with Lady Bertaut.

Margaret admired the line of his back, so straight you could build a wall against it. She reflected on his silence and inability to look at her. He was obviously upset and embarrassed by the accident, but he never revealed his feelings. Only his silence and distraction signaled, to her, his inner turmoil. "It's alright, you know," she said.

"What is?" Frollo asked, craning his neck to get a glimpse of Lady Agnes inside without revealing himself to her. She met his gaze and smiled conspiratorially. He whirled himself out of view and stood with his back to the wall.

"What happened this morning," Margaret continued. "I could tell you felt bad, and I understand that you don't want to talk about it. It's all my fault, I never should have said anything about the falcon being a present. It wasn't really important to me; I just hate to see things suffer."

"Of course."

"Could we walk over by the trees? The sun's getting hot. Or did you want to stay near the house, just in case?"

Frollo stared at her with a mix of confusion and disdain.

"I mean, do you think they'd worry about us being alone together? In a garden?"

Frollo's stare turned to horror.

"Oh, I didn't mean anything by it," Margaret babbled. "It's just, you know how the Arthur stories go. When Lancelot and Guinevere met in a garden. . . ."

Margaret's literary lesson was interrupted by the appearance of Lady Bertaut and Lady Agnes at the window.

Lady Agnes lay her graceful fingertips on the windowsill. "I hate to break up your little tete-a-tete, but we thought perhaps it wasn't the wisest plan to leave you two alone on such a lovely day."

Frollo ground his teeth behind pursed lips.

After dinner, Lady Bertaut and Margaret retired to the chambers reserved for them during their stay. Frollo remained behind with Lady Agnes in the great hall. He made a brief sally to leave for his chambers, but the arch of Lady Agnes's brow told him that retreat was not advisable.

"I don't see why you insist on a fire during the summer," he said. "It's sweltering in here."

"I think it's cozy," Lady Agnes replied. She stood before the long hearth, her hands folded. The cold blue of the moon on her back met the golden light of the fire in front. She knew just how long she could hold her son in suspense. She waited that long, and a few minutes more.

At last, he broke. "What sort of scheme have you concocted with that Bertaut woman?"

"That's a very disrespectful way to refer to our guest. If I weren't always so soft on you, Claude, I wouldn't tell you anything until your manners improve." She paused long enough to make him wonder if that closed the subject for the evening, then continued. "I've made a very important discovery."

"Well?"

"Lord Bertaut is on a special mission for His Majesty. He's crossing the Channel with a large contingent. They're going to break a siege somewhere in Dover. It's quite secret, of course, and a great risk. He's to be paid handsomely, and his station will no doubt improve."

"Assuming he succeeds."

"I have no doubt he will. This will be his second time fighting in the Wars. He was quite successful the first time around. The Bertauts weren't always so well-to-do."

"Need I remind you that I could find any number of wealthy eligible young women in the City."

"But not placed to rise in the world. You of all people should see the advantage. No one knows the girl's future yet. You can chase after your Parisian girls, but there you'll have competition."

"And I suppose no young woman with alternatives would choose your son?"

Lady Agnes smiled. "If she knew half of what I know, even the most desperate girl in France wouldn't have you."

Frollo chuckled dismissively and settled into a chair. The heat was making it hard to think. His resistance faltered, as if made pliable by the warmth of the fire. "Rather hard luck on her, isn't it? If I really am such a dreadful suitor."

"That's her loss for being a poor judge of character. I can't be bothered to look out for other people's children. I have my own son to look after." She massaged his shoulder. "But now you've met her. You don't find her so objectionable now, do you?"

Frollo stiffened again. If she had been content to let him save face, Lady Agnes might have won. But he wasn't about to let her exult. "She simply managed to confirm my opinion of her."

"And what about her opinion of you?"

Frollo knew better than to protest his innocence. "She fawns on me as much as ever, if that's what you mean."

"It's a good thing the poor girl is too dense to see your little act of sabotage for what it is."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You can't hide these things from me, dearest." Her grip on his shoulder tightened.

"The keeper told you-I'll have that man horse-whipped."

"Do you think I need spies to tell me about your machinations? I have only one question. Are you going to make confession tomorrow?"

"It wasn't a sin. Only a jest."

"There's not a jesting bone in your body. But whether you go to confession or not, I'm prescribing your penance."

Frollo's eyes widened at the thought of her forcing him into the marriage outright.

"The bird is a terrible loss to her. You will make it up with two of your own. And I will select them myself, just to ensure we don't have any more surprises."

Frollo ground his teeth audibly.

"It's no use. Such an expense must be compensated for. They say the Archbishop of Chartres excommunicated the thief who stole one of his falcons. The girl may not hold it against you, but her parents will."

"How long do you intend to keep importuning me with this scheme of yours?"

"Until the girl has come here enough times that her parents all but insist on a marriage."

"I won't have her in this house one more time."

"Perhaps I should inform the girl's parents-the father who gave her the falcon-about your part in the mishap today?"

"You have no proof of anything."

"As your mother, I think I have credibility enough. Not to mention the keeper's testimony, and don't think for a moment you can threaten him first. He has my promise of protection. You'd have to send a whole contingent of soldiers to get him out from under my wing, and even you wouldn't want all of France knowing you besieged your own mother."

"Wouldn't that create certain . . . difficulties for your plan to make me wed the girl?"

"If it comes to that, I'd rather have your respect than your marriage."

Under different circumstances, Frollo would have enjoyed sitting like this with his mother endlessly embroidering in the chair next to his. She was the only woman who would ever stand up to him. He concealed his admiration behind an expression of cold indifference.

"You know how stubborn I am, Claude."

He knew indeed. "I have no wish to create tensions between us. Perhaps we might call a truce, under certain conditions?"

Lady Agnes smirked. "You always were a great one for bargains. Even when you were a child, I could never punish you without giving something up for it. Ah me, I was always too lenient with you. Well, what is it?"

"You seem to think it's all but certain that Lord Bertaut will succeed in his mission to England. And I am equally convinced of the opposite. What would you say to a wager-if he comes back, I marry the girl. If he doesn't, I won't-which is no loss to you, as you're counting on his return to elevate the girl's fortune."

"And make the girl a chess piece between us?"

"Why ever not?"

Lady Agnes rose and set down her embroidery.

"Am I to take that as your assent?" he asked.

"Of course. I'm not going to sign one of your silly legal papers, if that's what you think. I have quite enough confidence in our relationship without having to hold a rag of sheepskin over your head. Good night, my dear."

Frollo hated the sense she always gave him that, whatever he might have won, she came off with the greater victory. He folded his hands, leaned forward, and propped his elbows on his knees. He wished he could have explained the real reason for his plot that day. It was nothing so nefarious; he simply had to use whatever means were in his power to save himself for the Church. Besides, it couldn't have been such a terrible experience for the girl. She was clearly spoiled and undisciplined. Perhaps the events of the day would make her realize the transience of worldly possessions. He slipped into a drowse, dreaming of all the ways he might improve such a hopeless and ignorant girl.


	4. Mimicry

**Author's Note****: **For those who enjoy the back-and-forth between Frollo and Lady Agnes, I apologize for this brief detour, but I think you'll find it entertaining. You'd better-I had to do (gasp) research! Enjoy!

**Musical Selection:** "Dialogue of the Wind and Sea" from "La Mer" by Claude Debussy

* * *

Lord Bertaut, silent and blear-eyed, leaned over the rail of the ship's forecastle. The moonless night was further darkened by clouds. With the stars blotted out, the only difference between sky and sea was a subtle variation in tones of black. A summer gale had blown the ship off course, and now they were two days behind their scheduled arrival. Bertaut doubted they could reach the coast before dawn. The sails were unfurled, and all the men who could be spared were at the rowers' benches.

The sound of a scuffle below decks rose above the rhythmic groan and creak of the ship. A young boy cried out, then fell silent. Bertaut gripped the hilt of his sword, rushed to the nearest trapdoor, and called down into the darkness.

"Whatever's going on, take it up here."

Two soldiers dragged up a blonde, wiry boy, hardly old enough to be a squire. A sailor stood behind them, holding up a torch.

"Caught him stealing rations, M'Lord," said Piccolet, a small, pinched man set to guard the foodstuffs, as he was of little use in any heavy physical capacity.

"They didn't give me mine today," the boy protested. "I wasn't stealing. I'm just taking what's mine."

"Is this true?" Bertaut asked the men. They protested ignorance, shrugged, and reminded him that Monsieur Jourdain was in charge of doling out rations.

"Call the other men," the boy said. "Ask Rabel, or Guibert. They saw it. Jourdain wouldn't let me have my rations. He was mad at me for making fun of his ugly face. I said it looked like a horse sat on it."

Bertaut frowned. "You should know better than to disrespect your fellow crew like that." He said nothing about the times he had seen Jourdain mock the boy for his light hair and girlish looks. He couldn't risk magnifying the crew's animosity at such a crucial moment. "All the same, you've served honorably thus far, and I believe you. But let this be a lesson about the consequences of lowering yourself to those who stir up mischief. A good soldier always holds himself above those who seek to demean him."

"Yes, M'Lord." The boy looked up at the tall bearded man. So many times he had wished he could hold to the soldier's tenets as Lord Bertaut propounded them. And yet, he knew his own propensity for trouble-making. He doubted he could ever give it up; deep inside, he wasn't sure he wanted to. In the meantime, it was enough to imagine himself as a dashing grown man, rescuing damsels in distress and inspiring courage in the hearts of all who followed him.

"Good lad," Bertaut said. "Now finish eating what you've got there and get some sleep, Phoebus."

Abelard, the ship's captain, strode up and hovered behind Bertaut. "M'Lord, the men have spotted another ship. A galley, quite large."

"How far?"

"Not half a league. We don't know whether she's following us, or whether we simply happened to cross her path. It's been dark as the Pit all night."

Bertaut followed Abelard to the starboard side and peered out over the horizon. The darkness had taken on a grayer cast, and against this first light of morning the black form of a galley rose and fell over the waves. Her flag was not yet visible, but Bertaut had no doubt of the emblem she would be flying. They were too close to the English coast for any but King Edward's ships to be sailing the waters. Their only chance was that the enemy would assume the same, and pass by without incident.

"Arm the rowers," Bertaut said, "but keep them below decks. We don't want to appear on guard. And run up the English flag."

Captain Abelard bowed and rushed away. Phoebus, his hard-won rations forgotten, stood next to Bertaut and watched the approaching ship.

Bertaut clapped Phoebus on the shoulder and smiled. Only a few years ago, Margaret had been the same age as this boy, hovering between childhood and the world of grand events. When he returned home, her transition would be complete, and she would marry the Minister of Justice. Again he recited to himself all the reasons why this was such a fortunate match for his daughter-a man she favored, who also happened to be wealthy and powerful. Nevertheless, his mood so darkened that it seemed a relief to focus on the danger at hand. He pictured the long, sallow face of the Minister and strove to recall a single time that thin, tight mouth had smiled on Margaret with sincerity. Margaret had convinced him that the Minister was simply a repressed man. That much was clear, but the question of what he was repressing remained a heavy weight on Bertaut's mind. Finding no comfort in thoughts of his family, he occupied himself in aiding the men on deck.

Seabirds flocked around the mast as the ship approached the coast, and still the English galley trailed them. The individual forms of the enemy could now be distinguished, but only as shadow figures on a shadow deck. Bertaut had never fought a sea battle in his life. The cries of the gulls seemed to him like the white companions of the crows and hawks that gathered before a battle on land.

The blue of first light melted into the red and gold of early dawn. The English coat of arms was at last visible on the flags of their pursuer-the gold lions on gules, quartered with the gold fleur-de-lis on azure, symbolizing Edward's claim to the French throne.

"The nerve," Phoebus muttered. He had always heard of the flag, but never before seen it with his own eyes. He fingered his sword and set his jaw.

"Steady, lad," Bertaut said. He didn't want the boy losing his head, though he was proud of his spirit.

The full length of the opposing ship was now covered with archers. The French crew faced the English like a mirror image. Sunlight glinted off iron on each side, passing from breastplate to shield to helmet, like silent shots with no power to wound. And still no real shot was fired.

Captain Abelard glanced up at their own false English flag. "Perhaps they trust us after all?"

A hiss, followed by a light thud, caught the ears of all on board. An arrow had struck the ship.


	5. Parlay Vous

**Author's Note:** Carnage, betrayal, comic relief, and stereotypical Englishmen. Get ready for some good old-fashioned mood whiplash, Disney style! And yes, I know the title is misspelled. It's a pun.

Also, technically, the Hundred Years' War ended about 30 years before _Hunchback_ takes place, but since this story begins 21 years before that (originally 23), I figure I can fudge a little. Disney's not so big on historical accuracy, and Phoebus in the movie refers to coming back from "the wars"-conveniently unnamed. Oh, and I'm pretty sure the English commander is Clopin's distant cousin, but don't quote me on that. You never know about those gypsies.

Musical Selection: "The Black Legend" by Immediate Music. A swashbuckling epic-style song (some of you may recognize the ending from the _Chronicles of Narnia_ trailers).

* * *

Lord Bertaut gripped the mast and sucked in a deep breath. The battle had brought on another bout of seasickness. Above the clang of weaponry and crashing waves, a cry and a splash-another man overboard. A creak and crack of splintering wood, and another grappling hook tore into the deck. The hooks extended all along the starboard side, locking the two ships in a death grip. The English now outnumbered the French on their own ship. The French, armed for a land assault, struggled under the weight of their armor and stumbled with the motion of the ship. The English, lightly armed with chainmail, swarmed them with blades flashing. Had he been on horseback, rising above the fray, Bertaut could have called the men to a fallback position and rallied for a victory. Here there was no hope of retreat.

Through the chaos, he glimpsed Phoebus locking swords with a soldier hardly older than he was. The blades slid against each other, then flew back, their momentum catching both boys by surprise. They stumbled backwards and stared at each other, as if each was unsure whether to keep fighting his opponent, a boy so like himself.

"Keep it up, old boy!" shouted an English voice. Bertaut turned to see a man in a bright blue, foppish doublet simultaneously fighting and calling out encouragement to Phoebus's opponent. "Give 'em what-for!" The man returned Bertaut's gaze and pulled a madcap grin. "I say! You there." As if suddenly bored with his current match, he kicked his opponent in the chest; the man flew backwards and fell to the deck. Bertaut sucked in a deep breath and advanced.

"I say, I've been looking everywhere for you," the man said. "Ghastly business this, isn't it?"

Bertaut hesitated. He had never before met an opponent who seemed more interested in small talk than swordplay. "It's a grimmer business than many I've fought on land. Not really what I signed on for."

"'Course not, old boy. Why, you poor chaps have barely got your sea legs. Tsk, tsk. Why not make things a bit more even? I feel it's bad form to have at you chaps under the present circumstances. What do you say we parlay. Parlez-vouz, eh? Ha, ha!"

"What exactly do you propose?"

One of Bertaut's men crept up behind the Englishman, blade aloft. For a moment, the edge stood vertical, poised for attack. Without even a glance over his shoulder, the Englishman jabbed his attacker in the stomach with his sword hilt. The man went down, gripping his gut. "Even the numbers a bit, one-to-one. Of course, there's still the advantage of seamanship on our side. Can't really help that, now, can we? But if you put the fate of your men on your head, I'll put mine on my own."

"A duel?"

"But of course! You're their leader, you represent them. Not to mention you're the only capable opponent I've found on this tub."

Bertaut surveyed the deck. The French were even fewer. Phoebus had disappeared. The knights on board could hope for ransom from their families. Close at hand, another soldier fell, clutching his side. Men like that had no family fortune to buy their life.

Bertaut bowed his head. "Very well."

"Splendid!"

The English commander signaled to one of the men, who blew a harsh signal on his horn. Bertaut dashed to the top of the forecastle and shouted over the fray. Bewildered, the men below began to pull apart and stare like sleepwalkers just awakened.

The Englishman cleared his throat. "Renegades and enemies of His Majesty-"

"God save the King!" the English crew shouted.

"-your commander, recognizing that you have no hope whatsoever of surviving this battle, has agreed to a duel. When your commander is defeated, you will all become prisoners of His Majesty-"

"God save the King!"

"Should your commander, by some miracle of divine intervention, manage to win, we will turn over our weapons and become prisoners of your King-"

"God save the-" The cheer died off in a mumble as the English realized their mistake.

The French looked up at Bertaut like pilgrims gazing at a reliquary. A few removed their helmets and wiped the sweat from their eyes. The English shrugged and chuckled as they backed away, disappointed at being forced to give up their winning matches.

Bertaut extended his sword and tested its balance. The Englishman grinned and took a step forward. The two forces separated themselves to stand behind their man. Phoebus, desperate for a front-row view, squirmed through the press of men. The horn blared, signaling the start.

The Englishman twirled his light weapon up, then down. Bertaut countered effectively, but slowly. At each slice, the blade came within a hair's breadth before he could ward it off. The bright morning grew dark once more as a strong wind blew in. The ship began to creak and pitch. Bertaut lost his balance and tripped backwards. The English cheered as their leader advanced. Bertaut growled and huffed. The ship made aiming impossible. He gave it up, and threw himself against the Englishman, heedless of the darting blade. It caught his left shoulder, but clanged against armor. It hit again with a ring.

The third time, there was no ring. Bertaut gasped and grated his teeth, but continued to push back. The Englishman's smile grew forced. A tentative cheer began to rise from the French. The Englishman's eyes narrowed. He waited for the ship to pitch downwards, then darted around Bertaut. Bertaut, weighed down by his armor, tried to turn around. Before he could regain his balance, the Englishman drove his shoulder and whole weight into Bertaut's back. The impact and the motion of the ship together forced Bertaut to the deck, into the crowd of English soldiers. Instead of pulling back, they surrounded him. Another blade struck his unwounded right shoulder. The blow came from in front, not from behind. The soldiers were violating the rules and helping their leader. Overcome by their treachery, Bertaut struggled to raise his sword, only to realize that the second wound had left him incapacitated.

"Foul play!" a French soldier shouted. "Get off of him!"

Phoebus forced his way through the crowd, just in time to see the Englishman draw back his sword, the point aimed at the crevice between the plates on Bertaut's chest and back. "M'Lord!"

"Forfeit!" someone shouted. The English looked up. Their commander turned around. "Excuse me?"

Captain Abelard stepped out of the crowd. His face twitched in an effort to maintain dignity. "We forfeit. We can't let our commander die for us, not if we're going to be taken prisoner either way."

Bertaut lay motionless on the deck. A sickness of humiliation came over him, physically stronger than even the seasickness he had suffered throughout the journey. "This was my choice," he said. "Let me finish it." For the first time, he could feel the extent of the wound in his shoulder. He rose, wincing.

The English commander smiled. "Touching, really. You chaps are ruddy decent after all. Very well. Remove your weapons, and we'll see you all receive spacious accommodations on our own vessel." He turned and winked at Bertaut. "We made sure to leave plenty of room on board for you chaps. A little bird told us you'd be coming along."


	6. Le Jeu Plaisant de Dames

**Author's Note: **Collette does not approve of FrolloxMargaret. In a real Disney film, Collette would be that one character who actually has an accent, like Lumiere in _Beauty and the Beast_.

In case you noticed the reference to Margaret's "dark" hair in Chapter 2, I've decided-after much deliberation-to change her to a blonde. My original concept was of a softer, younger proto-Esmeralda, but now I like the idea of Margaret as the "anti-Esmeralda." I apologize for my indecisiveness, though I doubt it will make much difference to readers.

Musical Selections: "Gourmandises" or "J'ai Pas Vingt Ans" by Alizee. If Margaret lived in 21st-century France, she would love Alizee's romantic, upbeat pop songs.

* * *

Frollo clenched his jaw and swallowed a yawn. Even when alone, he didn't like giving in to weak impulse. The candlestick had burned down to a puddle that reflected the flame above. He refused to waste time getting a new light. The volume before him was the second part of the _Summa_; the page concluded with Question 30.* If he pressed on, he was sure he could finish before the light was lost.

"Claude!"

Provided of course that he wasn't interrupted.

Lady Agnes called again, and with a long-suffering sigh, Frollo pushed himself up from the table. "Did you require my presence, Mother?"

"Oh Claude, it's horrible." Lady Agnes stood in the open doorway with a piece of parchment in her hand. She was paler than usual, even in the golden light of the candle, and the hollows around her eyes were skeletal. Frollo stood in silence, his nonchalant stare concealing a tumult of fear mixed with exaltation. He hardly dared to guess the news.

"The Bertauts are ruined," Lady Agnes continued. "For once, I can only thank heaven for your stubbornness. To think, if you hadn't refused that girl, our whole family would be dragged into such a scandal."

Frollo examined the letter. It was not quite what he had expected. It was even more advantageous, proof indeed that Heaven had heard his prayer. The letter was from Sir Duval, who claimed the distinction of being the only man to escape when Bertaut's ship was ambushed by the English. Duval chronicled the brutality of their captors, how they had refused to seek ransom for the prisoners, and instead were forcing half the men to fight for the English, or else see their comrades executed. The final end of their plot was to take Bertaut and his men back to France in their own ship, infiltrate Calais, and take the city. Once the English had their naval outpost, they might advance on Paris itself.

Frollo skimmed this portion and focused instead on the account of Bertaut's willing surrender to the enemy. He could hardly separate his joy from his apprehension. He wondered how long it would be until he felt entirely safe that his own part in the affair-however small-would never be found out.

"I suppose you'll be returning to the City at once," Lady Agnes said.

"I hardly think that necessary," he said. "One turncoat is hardly reason enough to cut short the assizes."*

"But think, Bertaut has betrayed his country. If he doesn't appear in court (and he certainly won't), you'll have to seize his property. It would be a . . . rather unpleasant situation, considering our past intercourse with the family. And any connection we have had is more likely to be talked of."

"Perhaps you're right. I suppose the last few cases might be heard by a deputy." He turned to resume his reading.

"I wish you'd gloat to my face," Lady Agnes said. "I know you're doing it to yourself."

Frollo composed his mouth so she couldn't hear the smile in his voice. "I've no wish to gloat over that girl's misfortune, or yours-if indeed it is such. Our Lord governs through the common affairs of the world as much as through miracles."

Lady Agnes sniffed. "You'd be singing a different tune if the girl's father came back crowned in laurels. Ah me. But I will honor our agreement. I won't speak another word to you about any particular young woman. But you know my wishes. 'Honor thy father and mother'-that should carry some weight with you."

"'If any man come to me, and hate not his father, and mother, and wife, and children, and brethren, and sisters, yea, and his own life also, he cannot be my disciple.'"

Lady Agnes stormed away. At last Frollo could smile freely. When would she learn not to lob Scripture at him? The candle went out. Frollo snarled and stumbled towards the cupboard. Armed with a new candle, he made his way to the great hall where the fire burned all night. His own chambers were closer, but he had no wish to confront Lady Agnes on the way. He returned with his meagre light and sat back down at the desk. Duval's letter lay on top of Aquinas. Frollo pushed the parchment underneath the book. He focused his eyes on the Latin, but felt like a schoolboy. The words refused to form themselves into thoughts. He tried mouthing the words, but this only focused him on the movements of his own mouth and the hoarse whisper of his voice.

He wondered if his own words to the English ambassador had anything to do with Bertaut's treachery. It was a shame that he should have taken such a risk if Bertaut was going to hang himself regardless. Not that Frollo had reason to believe the enemy would expose his comments. There was hardly anything to expose-nothing but the sort of vague suggestions that anyone might make in all innocence. Something about the growing naval ambitions of his country and the singular nature of the short distance between their two countries. Perhaps something about the siege at Dover, the need for the English to take the brunt of more fighting on their own soil. He was, in fact, not entirely sure that he hadn't dropped these comments inadvertently. It was no doubt preordained, and perhaps the Lord had chosen to make some use of it. If so, that was Heaven's business, not his. He had given all the ground he could to Lady Agnes, and Heaven had vindicated him. He leaned back in his chair and allowed himself a brief indulgence in the sense of freedom. Not that he didn't anticipate a certain awkwardness, as Lady Agnes had said, when it came time to seize the Bertauts' property for the Crown. And yet somehow, the thought of this unfortunate duty did not fill him with quite the sense of reluctance that Lady Agnes predicted.

* * *

Margaret's maidservant Collette always knew when her mistress was lost in thought by the way she stroked the ends of her blonde hair. Collette couldn't help her jealousy at the sight of the gold strands in the sunlight, but she suppressed the thought, ashamed to think such things about her dearest friend. Besides, she had her own advantages in life. Margaret pressed her mouth with her knuckles and leaned over the game board. Collette glanced at the pieces, lined so that Margaret could jump two in one turn, but so far she was oblivious. Collette had dared to set up the move on purpose, certain that Margaret would never see until Collette had both her pieces at the opposite end of the board. She almost felt embarrassed for Margaret and wanted to give her a hint. At least they had managed to keep from mentioning Lord Bertaut all morning. For the first time in weeks, Margaret seemed almost carefree, as in the days before her father had disappeared.

"I hope you're better at the other pleasant ladies' game than you are at this one, _mon amie_," Collette teased.* Margaret giggled. "But really, you're not hiding any secret love letters, are you? You really haven't heard from him since the fall?"

Margaret's eyes remained fixed on the board. "From Father?"

"_Mon Dieu_! The Minister, Monsieur Pinchface, you silly."

"Collette, don't tease like that."

"Bah! You think the same thing about him."

"What? No, of course not. Oh!" Margaret had missed the double-jump, but managed to take one of Collette's pieces elsewhere on the board. "Ha!" She waved the captured piece under her friend's nose.

Collette smiled, shrugged, and moved a piece onto Margaret's first square. "King me." Margaret pouted and stuck the captured piece on top of Collette's. "You don't have to pretend for me," Collette continued. "I know all about it. Perhaps in your position, I would do the same."

"I really don't understand you."

"_Ma mie_! You know exactly what I say. The man is perfectly repulsive, but you sacrifice_ l'amour pour la famille_. And a pretty martyr you'll make at the wedding. But, as much as I'd enjoy serving the wife of the Minister of Justice, I wish you'd show a little spirit and tell the scarecrow to go and boil his head. Think of what you give away. How can you ever be happy unless you marry your true love? Didn't we always promise we'd only marry _pour l'amour_? Who cares about money and rank, if you're married to a sour old skeleton?"

"Really, Collette, stop." Margaret tried in vain not to laugh. "That's very unkind. It shouldn't matter how a man looks, and besides, I think he's distinguished."

Collette almost screamed. "_Sacrebleu_! You can't be serious."

Margaret stroked her hair frantically with both hands and stared even harder at the board.

Collette shuddered. "_Helas_. As they say, Cupid is blind."

Margaret moved a piece at random, right into danger. She thought of playing the game with Frollo a few months before. Too shy to look her opponent in the face, she had spent the entire game staring at the board and the Minister's long, elegant fingers that pursued every piece until he had cleared the board. When she at last looked up, she had caught his thin lips twisted in a triumphant smirk. Fascinated and bewildered, she had looked down at her lap and waited until he rose wordlessly and rejoined Lady Agnes on the other side of the room.

"Well," Collette continued, "I can't understand what's possessed you, but if he really is the one you . . . " She could hardly use the word in connection with the Minister. " . . . love. . . ."

Lady Bertaut looked in at the doorway. "Margaret." Her voice was flat and soft, like the tone of a muted instrument. "I need to speak with you."

As Margaret stood up, Collette captured three pieces in a row. "_Voila_!"

* * *

*A chapter on concupiscence, or desire. The _Summa_ is a foundational treatise of medieval Catholic theology and philosophy.

*Medieval judges in England periodically presided over the assizes, special sessions devoted to criminal cases. The judges would travel to smaller towns so that all the residents didn't have to journey to a major city. I'm not aware that this was the custom in France, but it's a good device for moving Frollo around.

*"Le jeu plaisant de dames" or "the pleasant ladies' game" is one of the medieval French names for checkers. It was considered easier than "jeu force," a later variant of the game.


	7. The Four Horsemen

**Author's Note: **Because Frollo needs more bad-a** henchmen like the torturer in the dungeon scene. And Frollo smells of incense because D. M. Robb says so.

**Musical Selection:** "The Mother of All Battles" by Immediate Music. You have to love their titles.

* * *

Margaret grabbed the ends of her hair and pulled until the roots hurt. Outside the window, the gardener was pruning away the last withered remains of the summer roses.

"I can't imagine who would have concocted such a malicious lie," Lady Bertaut said. "I suppose no one, not even your father, reaches a position of prominence without making some enemies, but I'm still at a loss to-"

"-we have to ask Minister Frollo for help."

Lady Bertaut locked her fingers together and resolved to withhold as many of her fears as possible. "Darling, I'm sure he would help if he could, but he has to enforce the law. If we don't leave within a fortnight, he may be forced to turn us out."

Margaret almost laughed with incredulity. "How can you say that? We haven't done anything wrong, and he must know this is a terrible lie about Father. Someone has to rescue him. We'll go to Paris and-"

"Margaret." Lady Bertaut's voice hardened. "I don't want to hear any more about the Minister. We can't rely on anyone outside the family now."

"But they're like family-Frollo and Lady Agnes. We've spent more time with them this whole year than we have with anybody else."

Lady Bertaut ignored the interjection. "My cousin Lord Thibault has offered us protection, and we'll be leaving for his fief near Orleans in two days. I want you and Collette to start gathering your things right away."

Margaret thought of her father lying in an English prison while her own mother refused to seek help from the one man with power to help them. "I just can't believe you wouldn't ask-"

"Not another word, Margaret." Lady Bertaut turned away, her eyes burning with suppressed tears. She didn't know which it was that finally broke her restraint, the thought of her lost husband or the thought of her daughter's ruined prospects. True, she had always harbored doubts of the Minister's character and his feelings for her daughter. But Margaret was too bewildered now to realize the full extent of their tragedy.

Watching her mother, Margaret wondered for a moment if she might not have some real reason for mistrusting Frollo. She immediately cast away her doubt, but she couldn't ignore her mother's pain. She lay a hand on Lady Bertaut's shoulder and a cheek against her back. The only sound in the room was the clip of the gardener's shears.

When Margaret returned to her room, Collette had mentally played through four different game scenarios. The actual game was soon forgotten as Margaret relayed the news. Collette managed to gather that Lord Bertaut was accused of some kind of treason, that Minister Frollo had known about it for months and tried in vain to summon Bertaut to Paris, and now might seize the family property for the King. The individual parts of the story came in no particular order, punctuated with constant references to Lady Bertaut's stubbornness in refusing to seek Frollo's help. Collette simply sat and watched her mistress fly around the room gathering her clothes. Every time Margaret bundled another gown into her traveling chest, Collette pulled it out, folded it smooth, and put it back inside.

"After all," Margaret said, "Paris is only a day's journey away. Who knows how long it will take to reach Orleans. Mother is just upset, and she's not thinking clearly. We need someone with a level head to help us, someone who isn't wrapped up in this business."

"Isn't the Minister a bit wrapped up in it already?" Collette asked. "You're practically betrothed."

"Yes, but he's not one to be swept up in a panic. He'd know just what to do. Besides, as long as he doesn't prosecute Father, we're safe." Margaret flushed at the thought. She didn't often consider Frollo's position, isolated as she was from the business of the City, but now it came upon her with new force. Perhaps, once Frollo had pardoned her father, he would convince the King to rescue her father.

"You trust the Minister, _oui_?" Collette asked.

Margaret stood still in the center of the room. "You shouldn't have to ask that question."

"And he returns your feelings?" Collette had never seen the Minister express any great enthusiasm towards her mistress, but then again, she had rarely seen the two together. Perhaps in private he was more effusive.

Margaret thought of Frollo kneeling in church to pray, of his deep and resonant voice reciting Scripture. But she saw too the cold expression that accompanied even his devotions. "He doesn't feel things the way you and I do, but he will do what he thinks right, no matter what the consequences."

Collette began flipping one of the round game pieces between her knuckles, a trick she had picked up from the gypsies at the Midsummer Festival.

"There. I think that's that." Margaret lay the final garment in the chest. "Now, perhaps we should go to the storeroom for provisions?"

Collette dropped the game piece. "Whatever for?"

Margaret's eyes roved about the room. "For the journey, of course."

"I'm sure_ ta maman_ will have them pack provisions for all of us."

Margaret nodded, muttered something, and turned to the wall.

"_Mon chere amie_." Collette rose and stood beside Margaret, who turned to hide her face. "I hope you would not think to make your own journey to some other destination. Hoping perhaps that your preparations would not be noticed?" Margaret was silent. "_Que ridicule_! Monsieur Pinchface has bewitched you. You will promise-yes, promise me-that you will do nothing so foolish. You will go with your mother to Orleans."

Margaret's voice was pained. "Please, don't patronize me, Collette." She smiled wryly. "Just because you're the clever one. If I had a better plan, I'd do that instead."

"Then I will be obliged to inform _ta maman_ to keep a watchful eye on you."

"Please, Collette. Listen to me. Don't you see, this might be my only chance."

"For what?"

"To be a married woman." Margaret opened her jewelry chest and took out a chain with a ruby pendant cut in the shape of a rhombus-a gift from her beloved. She did not know that Lady Agnes had purchased it for the Minister and insisted he give it to Margaret. She clasped the chain around her throat. "We know that Father is innocent, but the rest of France may never believe us, unless the Minister clears his name. If not, I won't marry the Minister, which I'm sure would please you. But I won't marry anyone else, either."

"_Ma mie_, I'm sure-"

"You know what they'll say. No one will marry a traitor's child."

Collette sighed. She looked at the chain around Margaret's neck and wondered why her friend was so desperate for a status that could only make her more dependent, only further deprive her of legal rights and powers. At times like these, she tended to forget that they were the same age.

Margaret turned to her but would not raise her eyes. "Don't make me a prisoner in my own home."

Collette tossed her head in frustration and resumed folding the clothes in Margaret's traveling chest. "Just don't try to go sneaking those provisions on your own. I'll find what we need."

* * *

The Bertaut's ancestral home had not seen a night so fevered with preparations since the siege of 1385. Candles flashed in the black windows like fireflies, then disappeared in the dark. A dog barked once, then whimpered and fell silent as a stableboy clamped his muzzle shut. Lady Bertaut and a party of servants were to leave an hour after midnight. Everyone else-the cooks, the blacksmith, the whole surrounding countryside of serfs-would remain behind to await their new master. Margaret and Collette had chosen this final night for their escape, in hopes that the bustle would conceal their own secret departure.

Margaret stopped on the stairwell and peered out through a narrow window. "A full moon. Isn't it romantic?"

Collette, further down the steps, turned around and joined her. "Not quite full, _mon amie_. See-it bulges on the left side."

"At least we'll have some light on the way."

"Harder to go unseen."

The storeroom was bustling with servants. The ladies pulled their hoods farther down and slipped between the men. One or two glanced in their direction, but no one took the time to question them. They kept to the walls like mice until they reached the trapdoor to the escape tunnel. Margaret tugged at the iron ring but could make no headway until joined by Collette. The wooden planks trembled and creaked, but the sound was swallowed by the thump of boots and the gruff voices of the men. The ladies tried to ease the door gently down, but it slipped their grasp, slammed shut, and left them in darkness.

Margaret immediately wished she hadn't allowed Collette to talk her into making the journey without a light. She kept a tingling ear open for the sound of scuttling rodents or worse, snakes. She stretched her hands out before her face and felt the misty, sticky film of cobwebs. Shuddering, she wiped her hands on her dress.

"I will go first," Collette said. "Hold on to my shoulder."

They picked their way over the crumbling stone floor, across tree branches that years ago had burst the masonry, through puddles so deep the freezing water flowed into their shoes and chilled their feet. Every moment Margaret expected to reach the end, but the tunnel continued on, silent apart from the occasional drip of water. Only once they heard a scuttling. Margaret jumped and threw her arms around Collette, who squeezed her shoulder affectionately and waited for her friend to regain composure before continuing on.

A distant echo of stamping and hushed voices floated down through the blackness. The ladies hurried towards the sound, until Margaret tripped on a pile of stones and hurt her ankle. She was glad no one could see her limping and hopping along. They emerged in a tangle of brambles that ripped their clothes and scratched their skin. The two stableboys, Andry and Loys, stood in the torchlight holding the reigns of the horses.

"Begging your pardon, M'Lady, but we didn't dare bring your Snowflake," Andry said. "I thought they'd be sure to suspect."

Collette nodded. "_Tres raisonnable_." Loys held the reigns for Margaret while she mounted; Collette jumped into the saddle without waiting for assistance. Andry described their route, which would take them through the copse and into the fields to the north. When dawn came, they could risk turning west and taking the road to Paris.

A distant shout startled the horses from their doze.

"Put out the torch," Collette ordered. Margaret groaned in frustration at the thought of being caught and taken back home. On the other hand, their adventure had already been less pleasant than she had anticipated. She wouldn't mind a fresh change of clothes and the warmth of a fire on her soaking wet feet. The crash of horses' hooves through the undergrowth shattered her musings.

"Get down," Collette whispered to the stableboys as she urged her horse to a gallop. Margaret followed, bewildered. The uneven ground made her bounce painfully in the saddle. A branch whipped and stung her cheek. She gained on Collette until they were riding neck-and-neck.

"They probably sent Monsieur Puchot after us," Margaret said, referring to the family equerry.* "We'll never outrun him. Perhaps we should turn back?"

"It's not Puchot," Collette said. "Those men were armed."

Margaret kicked her horse. Its rippling muscles beneath her, the moan of the wind on the hillside, and the rumbling of the horses that pursued them began to stir up strange fears. Imagined sensations rose in her mind, as though she hovered on the borders of sleep. Everything was disjointed, nonsensical-the roses in their garden at home, Lady Agnes and her scent of rose water, Frollo's robe with its cloud of spicy bittersweet incense; the lines of his hand holding a game piece, the embroidered hem of her mother's handkerchief raised to her eye, the hull of her father's ship rising and falling with the swell of the sea. The images goaded her like a wound she knew she had received but could not yet feel.

She craned her neck for a glimpse at their pursuers. They were four men, on huge horses that snorted like bellows.* They were much closer than she had guessed. She gripped the reigns tighter until the leather cut her palms. Collette pulled ahead and lead the chase towards a narrow gorge. Margaret followed, but found herself flanked by one of the horsemen. The entrance of the gorge loomed ahead, too narrow for more than one horse at a time to pass through. Margaret kicked her mount with greater force than she had ever suspected she could muster. Her lungs were raw from gasping on the cold night air.

Collette disappeared into the black mouth of the gorge. It grew ever higher as Margaret approached, yet the space between the cliffs seemed to threateningly narrow. Just before it, Margaret's courage failed. She wrenched her panicked horse's head to one side.

The rumble of hooves over loose stone told her that the greater number had followed Collette. She tried keeping near the gorge, but the shadowy figure of a giant horse and rider blocked her way and forced her into an open field. The single light of a cottage window gleamed in the blackness. She called out, but the wind swallowed her voice. A figure appeared in the cottage doorway and shouted something she couldn't make out. A goose honked and flapped out of her path as she rode through the dusty yard of the house. Behind her, a horse screamed in pain. She turned to see the horseman struggling with his mount as it reared and tossed its head. Then the trees closed behind her, and she was left to trust her horse's night vision.

* * *

Simon Longuet lowered his bow and took a step back into the doorway of the cottage. The black horseman dismounted and tore the arrow from his horse's flank. He advanced on Simon, the arrow clutched in his armored fist.

"You maggots out here in the country really are getting restless, aren't you?" The man was so tall he would have to stoop to enter the door. The blade of his sword came hissing out of its sheath. "It's a good thing we don't have to waste time putting your kind on trial."

* * *

*The keeper of the horses.

*The horses are War, Famine, Conquest, and Death.


	8. Scylla and Charybdis

**Author's Note:** Title from Book 12 of the _Odyssey_, in which the hero must steer his ship between the two evils of Scylla (a man-eating monster) and Charybdis (a ship-swallowing whirlpool).

**Musical Selection:** "Zigeunerweisen" (Gypsy Airs) by Sarasate. Just copy and paste to search for it. Don't try to spell it out. Seriously. Unless you're one of my German readers. :)

* * *

Margaret's first sensation the next morning was of dew-soaked clothing stuck to her skin. She could still smell the smoke in her hair, but knew without opening her eyes that the fire was out. She barely shifted one shoulder, and recoiled at the pain of stiffness. Gradually her mind progressed from sensation to memory. She thought of Collette and her mother. Her empty stomach tightened to think that she had no idea what was happening to them.

Before she could consider turning back, she noticed that her blanket was beginning to slide off. She grabbed the hem and pulled it up to her chin. A moment later, it slid off again. She groaned and pulled. The cloth resisted. She opened her groggy eyes and pushed herself up, wincing. A young male voice began to giggle, and was joined by others. She looked up to find her own horse bending down to stare at her, and above his head, the grinning face of a swarthy, black-haired young man dressed in a garish yellow and purple costume. A ring of dark figures in bright clothes surrounded her, including one who held the opposite end of her blanket.

"Sleeping beauty awakes at last!" cried the thief on the horse.

Margaret clambered to her feet. "What are you doing? You vagabond! Get off my horse this instant." She had not evaded armed men and ridden all night in the darkness to be humiliated by a band of troublemakers. Yet the strident sound of her own voice startled her, along with the amused and threatening stares of the gang.

"Well, well," said the thief. "Quite the spirited mademoiselle! But for that pallid complexion I could have mistaken you for one of us. I would be delighted to return your steed, if we weren't in such a tight spot." He removed his feathered hat and waved to a line of three caravans by the side of the road. Only two were hitched to a horse. "One of our vehicles is out of commission, and while we're waiting here, we could find ourselves overtaken by some very unpleasant fellows."

"I'm very sorry," Margaret said, in all sincerity. "But I really need the horse. I've been running all night, and I have to get to Paris as soon as possible."

"Paris!" The thief exploded in merriment and threw his arms in the air. "What a coincidence! Our destination is yours, mademoiselle! You must come along with us!"

Margaret feared that a horse harnessed to a caravan could not travel half as fast as a free horse at a gallop. But the grinning faces and burly arms of the figures around her suggested that she might put up with some inconvenience for the sake of harmony. "If you're sure it wouldn't be too much trouble. . . ."

"No trouble at all! Lads, escort our guest to the caravan."

Margaret stiffened as she found herself even more tightly ringed by the gypsy band. Their leader in front, they traipsed over the sodden grass to the road.

The inside of the caravan was the color of a bluebird's wing. In the center stood a rough table and chairs painted red and yellow. Bunks piled with multicolored quilts lined the wall. Margaret had never seen so many different colors tumbled together in happy chaos. The four women inside stared at her. She waited for one of them to offer her a seat, but they left her standing. The floor jostled and creaked into motion. Margaret wavered, tripped, and collapsed onto one of the beds. The women giggled. Margaret smiled and rubbed her back, now aching worse than before.

The women began to murmur and giggle among themselves about the men, someone's terrible cooking, and friends or family with whom they would be reunited in Paris. Their gentle voices soothed Margaret, who didn't mind not being able to join in. She sat on the heather-stuffed mattress by the window and watched the landscape slide by. Sunlight shone through the last vestiges of a morning fog, turning it into liquid light that flowed through every hollow. Margaret realized that, despite having slept a few hours before the dawn, she was still exhausted. The pleasant chatter of the gypsy women became an annoyance that constantly pulled her back from the edge of sleep. A squeal of merriment from the group caused her to open her eyes.

The women sat around an open chest, from which they pulled a succession of hand puppets with carved wooden faces. One looked like the horse thief who had awakened Margaret that morning, complete with purple and yellow tunic. Another was black and wore a chaperon with a red ribbon. Its long, grimacing face came to a point in a beak-like nose. It held a slapstick, like the Punch and Judy puppets Margaret had seen at festival shows. Startled but delighted by the puppet's resemblance to the Minister of Justice, Margaret laughed and clapped her hands. One of the girls stood up and offered her the puppet. Margaret slipped her hand inside. The puppet began to bob slowly up and down in imitation of a stately walk. The women erupted in laughter. The puppet stiffened and darted about as though offended, then swiped the air maniacally with the slapstick.

"Acts just like him," said one of the women, with a playful sneer.

"Do you know the Minister?" Margaret asked.

The women's laughter ebbed into silence. The youngest girl was the first to speak. "Have you ever been to Paris before?"

"No, actually, I haven't," Margaret said, feeling provincial in the presence of such a well-traveled group. "But I've met the Minister in the country. You see-" A jolt sent her flying backwards. Her head slammed against the windowsill. The rattling of the caravan grew louder, and the violent shaking of the floor told them that they were moving twice as fast. Everything unsecured, from the bowls on the table to the candlesticks, fell to the floor. One of the women stuck her head out the window and called to the driver. His response was inaudible to the other passengers, but when the woman turned to them, everyone knew, even Margaret, that something was wrong. The others pleaded for enlightenment. The woman closed her eyes.

"It's the Four Horsemen."

One of the older women clutched a bundle to her chest. The youngest gypsy girl stared venomously at the floor. Margaret, realizing that she was the only one in the room who didn't understand, suppressed her desire to ask and fell as silent as the others. Above the rumbling of the horse and the caravan wheels, she heard men's voices shouting. The previous night seemed to invade the day and turn the many hours into one endless stretch of exhaustion and fear. Unable to bear pursuit by unseen figures named after the beasts of the Apocalypse, Margaret looked out the window. Far down the road she could see a group of men on horseback, though their exact number was impossible to guess at a distance.

"Get back, you goose!" one of the women cried, pulling Margaret backwards and closing the shutters. "They might shoot us."

The passengers huddled in the center of the room. The Frollo puppet bounced off the bed and onto the floor. The gypsy women withdrew their feet from it as though it were a live coal. Margaret picked it up and held it in her lap, like a child with a doll. She wished the real Minister were here; he would put those bandits in their place. "Aren't there any soldiers out here in the country?" she asked. The gypsies frowned at her as though she spoke a foreign tongue.

"Who did you think is after us?" the youngest girl snapped.

The past night's disjointed dreams and visions, forgotten until that moment, rose in Margaret's mind. She inwardly beat them away like smoke. "I haven't the slightest idea," she said, surprised at the pique in her own voice.

The girl looked down at the puppet in Margaret's hands. "Did you say you'd met the Minister of Justice?"

"Yes, but I don't know what that has to do with anything." She could feel the stares of the other women.

"Then you ought to know something about his . . . reputation," the girl continued.

"If you mean his work, I haven't the slightest idea-"

"Those are his men."

At first, Margaret was certain she had misheard over the clatter of the caravan. After a long silence, she realized she could not possibly be mistaken. But the girl must be. "No, that's ridiculous. Besides, what reason would he have to send his soldiers outside Paris? After all-" A sudden image of her mother stopped her tongue. A spike of energy shot up her spine and set her shoulders quivering. Still braced herself against it. "No, it doesn't make any sense. Let me get out and speak to them."

In response to this, only one of the older women was able to speak. "Child, are you mad?"

"Don't worry, it's alright," Margaret said. She lay the puppet back in the chest and stood up, holding on to a wooden beam to steady herself. "I know the Minister. I know him very well. He's my fiance."

Of all the awkward silences that had passed through the room, this was the most uncomfortable.


	9. Pragmatism

**Author's Note:** Thanks for your patience! I had to get some plot issues straight before I could post this one. In other news, I now have a Deviantart account for "Traitor's Child" and general HoND fanart. Just search for "bluemoonriver." I'm working on character designs at the moment, and hope to post complete illustrations over the summer. Also, I've just received my first publication offer! I feel like a "real" writer now.

**Musical Selection:** "Songs My Mother Taught Me" by Dvorak. Irony, much?

* * *

Frollo knew his decision must be swift. Either he could demote his four chief officers and have them tortured for their imbecility, or he could content himself with humiliating them and forgo the trouble of finding replacements. He could not use torture and allow them to retain their rank; their mystique would be tarnished once the peasantry knew that even these men could be broken by his wrath. He preferred they retain their reputation as his eyes and ears.

These calculations took place in silence while the four stood before the Minister with bowed heads. Reluctantly, Frollo settled for the only practical choice. He placed his fingertips together and turned his back to the men.

"And so you took the word of the gypsy scum and let the whole caravan escape. On the road to the City." His voice was smooth as the silk of his robe. Lady Agnes, seated in a curtained alcove, looked up from her _Life of St. Antony_. She knew that tone of voice. It was customarily followed by an outburst that reminded her of her deceased husband. She licked her fingertips to turn the page, but froze holding the corner. Her contemplation was less of a religious nature and more focused on the news of Margaret. She realized how accustomed she had grown to Margaret scampering along after her, chattering to her in the nave after Mass, and providing her with endless opportunities for needling her son. In the weeks since her arrival, the Palace of Justice had been even darker and more desperately dull than she remembered it. She listened intently as Malbert, the Captain of the Guard, tried to mollify her son.

"We thought it best to run ahead of them so you could prepare an ambush, Sir. The girl-well, it was clear she was a lady, and we had no reason to believe there wasn't some sort of understanding between the two of you. It wasn't the sort of thing we wanted to risk. . . ."

"Of course. And I don't suppose it ever occurred to you that four armed men might just possibly overpower a ragtag troupe of vagabonds and free the hostage?"

"With all due respect, Sir, when they put a dagger to her throat, we weren't too keen on taking chances."

The captain's logic only stoked Frollo's rage. Even as he seethed, he relished the sense of rising passion. It would make the final release that much sweeter. "And so you scurried back to Paris, that I might instruct you on your every move?"

"Perhaps we might have tried another course, but we were taken aback-"

Frollo whirled around, the red sash of his chaperon whipping the air. His staring eyes and snarl made him bear more than a passing resemblance to a cathedral grotesque. "Taken in by the tricks of a heathen mountebank!" he shouted. "You idiots! What evidence did you have to believe there was any connection between me and some gypsy prisoner? I am betrothed to no one, do you understand? You've all been made fools of, and made me look a fool in the process. I should have each one of you hanged for incompetence."

The men were stoic. They knew better than to let their commander know how it irked them to be castigated like schoolboys, or how greatly each of them feared demotion and a slow death on the rack. Their detachment only fueled the Minister's fury. Lady Agnes turned a page of _St. Antony_.

"You had a whole band of them in your power, and what do you do?" Frollo continued. "Not simply let them ride straight to the City. No, you make yourselves their messenger boys, and deliver to me some trumped-up nonsense about ransom! And what a ransom. How dare these heathen command me to release their criminal accomplices. But they shall see how it is I release my prisoners. They may wish they had made some other demand of me when they find how much less . . . lively their companions have become."

Captain Malbert and Loup, his second-in-command, shared a knowing glance. As long as the Minister was venting his fury on prisoners, they could rest easy.

Frollo planted his palms on the table and leaned forward, overcome by his own outburst. When Lady Agnes turned another page, the room was so quiet that the whisper of the parchment was audible. At last Frollo straightened his back and presented a face so placid it could hardly have belonged to the same man. "I do not have time for this petty nonsense. We must turn our attention to matters of far greater import. I want all of your men ready to depart for Calais within a fortnight. I have received intelligence that the English forces and the traitor will perhaps arrive sooner than we anticipated. Report to me again when your men are fully supplied and ready for deployment."

The four bowed in unison and left in subdued silence. Lady Agnes closed her book. "Well," she began, "this is hardly the sort of distraction you need at the moment, my dear, and you certainly have my sympathy." Frollo shuffled through a stack of papers looking for his map of Calais. She tried again. "Of course, it won't require a very great diversion of your forces to free one girl from a ragtag lot of kidnappers."

Frollo looked up, one eyebrow arched impossibly high. "Excuse me?"

"I was only observing that, assuming you could find them, it shouldn't take much show of force to set the poor girl free."

"What in heaven's name made you to understand I had any intention of sending a rescue party after that ridiculous girl?"

For once, Lady Agnes looked almost flustered. "I merely assumed, since you couldn't possibly allow such an insult to go unpunished-"

"It would be an insult if I were betrothed to the girl. She is nothing to me."

"But you can't allow these gypsies to waylay innocents with impunity."

"They can do what they please with her. The girl's father is a traitor. No doubt it is Heaven's retribution, 'visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children.'"

Lady Agnes slammed _St. Antony _down on her lap. "Don't be ridiculous! You have an oath to fulfill as protector of the City-"

"-And at present that means directing all my powers to fend off an attack by this very girl's father." Frollo's black eyes narrowed to slits. "And pray, when did you become so fervently bound up in Mademoiselle Bertaut's welfare?"

Lady Agnes opened her book once more and skimmed the pages without reading the words. "I simply believe that you make a grave misstep in focusing all your powers on Calais, to the detriment of your battle against the enemy within our walls."

Frollo held a fingertip to his mouth and pensively rubbed his thin lips. Lady Agnes inwardly breathed a sigh of relief, realizing that she had managed to direct her son's remorseless insight away from her own secret motivation. But she knew she could go further. "After all," she mused, "might there not be some way to turn the incident to your advantage?"

Frollo smirked. "Besides allowing the gypsies to dispose of your pawn?"

"You know full well I intend to honor our agreement and make no further use of the girl in that respect. But consider what she might have learned in her captivity. They must be keeping her in some secret place, perhaps in that Castle of Miracles or Den of Iniquity or whatever they call it. And of course, they can't expect you to go releasing criminals unless you've seen the girl yourself and confirmed that she is in their custody."

Frollo smiled. "Ah! An astute observation. It would indeed be requisite to meet with her captors in some prearranged place."

"With a sizable contingent. Not necessarily in view, but just in case the criminals attempt any subterfuge or bad faith."

Mother and son smiled at each other in mutual affection and admiration. "You know," Frollo said, "at times I almost believe I learned more from you than from all my years at the University."

"But of course. All those learned doctors couldn't teach you a thing about channelling the schemes of others to your own benefit."


	10. Prisoners and Pagans

**Author's Note:** I wanted this scene to stand as half of a long chapter, for thematic reasons. But finals prep is killing me, so I'm holding back the rest for next week. I'll probably combine both parts later. I don't like chopping up a chapter, but I also don't like going for much more than a week without updating.

**Musical Selection:** "Sic Mea Fata" from the medieval Carmina Burana, performed by Modo Antiquo (micrologus2 on YouTube again).

* * *

Lord Bertaut craned his neck to get a glimpse at the open wound in his shoulder. He could see only the upper region. It didn't look promising. He dipped a clean cloth in a bowl of vinegar and daubed the open flesh. He couldn't tell if his sudden dizziness was due to the pain or the pitching of the ship. He was just beginning to wrap a new bandage when Fitzhugh, the English commander responsible for the wound, appeared in the shadows. Behind him trudged Phoebus, so thin that he seemed to have aged five years in the weeks since Bertaut last saw him.

"I couldn't stand for it," Fitzhugh said. "Conditions down below are simply squalid. And I'm afraid the poor fellow's decided to go on some sort of hunger strike. I thought you might convince him to take better care of himself." He patted Phoebus's slumped shoulder. Phoebus scowled in reply.

Bertaut sat erect, despite the increase of pain it caused. He concealed his suffering behind a stiffly formal tone. "Thank you for releasing him. I'll see what I can do." Phoebus took his place beside Bertaut like a soldier at attention. Neither wished to initiate a full reunion until their captor had left.

Recognizing that his presence was unwanted, Fitzhugh smirked ruefully and touched the brim of his hat. "Glad to see you chaps reunited. And I hope you're taking care of that hole we gave you. Wouldn't want it attracting the pestilence, eh?" His sympathetic frown spoke real concern, but his choice of words left the prisoners frowning as coldly as before. Fitzhugh sighed, muttered something about "ingratitude," and wandered off into the jumble of stacked crates and hanging ropes.

Phoebus turned to his captain. His face remained impassive, but his fists clenched and opened spasmodically. "Sir, how can I be of assistance?"

Bertaut smiled. "For starters, you can eat what rations we have. Mine are over there in that bowl. And I don't want you complaining-it's an order. I don't need it, I could stand to lose a few pounds. Besides, I can hardly keep down a single bite on this blasted ship." Phoebus picked up the black crust, its mottled surface hard and shining like the carapace of a beetle. At least none of those creatures could have been eating it; no insect could possibly digest such fare. He stuck it in his mouth and sucked, hoping to moisten it into something halfway edible.

The two sat in silence, Phoebus resisting the need to lean against the sure and solid form of his mentor, Bertaut resisting the same impulse, afraid that any displays of affection would offend the young soldier's pride.

"What was it like down there?" Bertaut finally asked. All he knew about the lower deck was that it served as a prison for half his forces, the men whose fate depended on their comrades' service to the enemy.

Phoebus started to say that it was a hell of disease and starvation, but checked himself. "It's pretty bad."

"What's the morale? Are any of the men talking?"

"Some of them believed the enemy, that you and the others really went over. I knew it wasn't true. They think we're all going to be rescued at Calais because of Sir Duval. But some of them. . . ."

"What do some of them say?"

Phoebus knew his captain had to know the danger he was in, but he could barely bring himself to repeat the rumors. "They say you and the others will be tried for treason. Some of them say that you picked out the half that would be kept as prisoners. They said they would testify against you at trial." Bertaut's vacant expression was more upsetting to Phoebus than the aggrieved response he had expected.

"That's alright," Bertaut said. "I expected as much. It may mean nothing, in the end. We still have a chance to show our loyalty."

"We won't ever fight on their side, will we?"

Bertaut covered his face, no longer able to conceal the tumult within. Phoebus wondered if the sound he heard was Bertaut moaning or the groan of the ship. "I cannot raise my hand against my countrymen, and I cannot condemn the men in my charge to die. And yet, if they are to die, it is at the hands of the enemy. We aren't responsible for the tactics they use."

Phoebus tried but couldn't make out the captain's words. He pulled the crust out of his mouth and tossed it aside. "I'm not eating that thing. I can't eat it. My teeth would fall out." Bertaut smiled and tousled the boy's hair. "Give me an order I can carry out. Anything. If I can do it, I will."

Bertaut's eye roved around the dark hull and peered into the darkest corners as though searching for something in the depths. Phoebus wondered if he was looking for a rat, which he could hear scuttling nearby.

"All I need is your solemn vow," Bertaut said. "Your promise that, before you see me taken by my countrymen and tried for treason, you will help me find such an end as the Roman commanders sought in the old days."

The word "Roman" set Phoebus's mind wandering back to the few memories he had of his father, a man who came in and out of his early childhood like an actor in a mystery play. He never saw his parents together in a single memory. His father always appeared in a a chair by the fire, enthroned and still wearing his armor, even though Phoebus knew he must have always taken it off before settling down. He couldn't remember what his father's voice sounded like, but he retained a collection of stories from the English campaigns and the ancient wars of the Greeks and Romans. The bloody last moments of Marc Antony, Seneca, and-with rising horror-Cato the Younger, appeared in his imagination.

"No!" He stood up, looking down at Bertaut's waist to see if a weapon were hidden there, oblivious that their captors would never have allowed their prisoners to remain armed. "You would never want to die like that! You know what it means. That's what the pagans did. We're not like them. We'll fight the English, and our own people if we have to. But I will serve you. I'll keep you safe from yourself. I'm the soldier of a Christian king, and so are you." Phoebus felt all the despair of the past weeks drop from him like heavy armor after a long day's trek. Despite the horror and shame he felt for Bertaut, he was carried aloft by a feeling almost of joy that ran riot through his heart. He was responsible for this grown man, the man who had saved him so many times amid the chaos of the battlefield, and he would protect not only his body, but his soul as well.

Bertaut smiled weakly and grasped Phoebus's hand. "We'll speak no more of this for now. But I want you to know, Phoebus, that I'm more proud of you than I could ever say."


	11. Hopes and Fears

**Author's Note:** I've discovered that I adore writing Esmeralda and Clopin. Especially Clopin, but that's no surprise. I've also decided he's a bit ADD-big surprise there.

**Musicial Selection:** "Cursum Perficio" by Enya. A heavy, ominous tune that builds to a chilling climax. I loved this song as a young child, even though it sounds a bit scary. Scroll to the bottom for Latin lyrics and translation.

* * *

Margaret wondered whether it was night or day in the world outside. In the dark caravan, the bright colors were now a single shade of gold that flickered in the light of a lone candle. The gypsies had boarded up the windows, but the voices outside the caravan echoed, as though they were still indoors. She almost wished one of those gypsies would come and speak to her, even if only to repeat the same threats-that they would send her back to Frollo in pieces if she made a sound, that if she ever told anything of what she saw they would make sure that her next sleep was the longest she ever had. The big, bearded men were the worst, with their smell of garlic and strong spices. The young sprightly one who stole her horse wasn't as terrible. He talked like the others did, but he grinned and pranced as if it were all a performance. Not that she didn't believe he wouldn't carry out his threats. He would just be less offensive about it.

Her one consolation was that no longer had to worry about Collette. To think, all along the men who had chased them were working for Frollo, and were no doubt trying to protect them, perhaps escort them to Paris. And like a fool she had run from them, straight into the clutches of heathen highwaymen. She had been so close to safety; if only she hadn't let Collette talk her into running.

Now she was a damsel in distress, like Lady Lionors in King Arthur. The reality was proving less pleasant than the fantasy. It was the difference between wandering outside in a rainstorm and lying snug in a warm bedroom beneath soft covers, listening to the patter of raindrops on the glass pane. At the same time, if she survived, she might enjoy reliving the memories from the safety of home-with her parents or, perhaps, in the Palace of Justice with her new husband.

"Oh yes," she would say to a wondering, sympathetic Frollo, "it was simply dreadful. I never knew I could withstand such conditions. But one rises to the occasion, doesn't one?"

A metallic, rattling sound interrupted her reverie. The door of the caravan opened a crack, and the head of a tiny goat popped into the room. It was followed by the girl they called Esmeralda, the one who had accused Frollo of sending the horsemen after them. She grinned and looked over her shoulder as she slipped inside.

"Can I hide here, too?" Esmeralda asked.

"If you want to, I don't suppose there's anything I can do about it," Margaret said.

Esmeralda retied the pink scarf that held back her mane of curls. Margaret had to admit, she had never seen a child so beautiful, despite her dark gypsy looks. Margaret found most children perfect, but this girl surpassed perfection with a fascinating strangeness. Her mouth shifted in constant smiles, as if she harbored some delicious secret, and her green eyes were as vivid as cloth died in verdigris. "Djali wanted to meet you," she said.

"How convenient," came a familiar voice from the doorway. Clopin waved his purple hat until the bright yellow plume seemed ready to fly out of the brim. "I don't suppose your little pet would have anything to say about this, would he?" He presented the hat. Its brim was missing a large, jagged chunk.

Esmeralda giggled and bundled the goat up in her arms. "I'm sorry, Clopin, but it's your fault for leaving it lying around."

"It most certainly was not lying around! It was just where it should be, on top of my head. I lay down for a few moments of shuteye, and the next thing I know, that bottomless pit has attacked my headwear."

"Well, you'll just have to be more careful then." Esmeralda turned her back to Clopin and addressed Margaret. "You look kind of sad. I bet it's pretty boring sitting here all by yourself. Want me to tell your fortune? I've been practicing."

Clopin huffed in an unconvincing display of pique. "I should say so. There's not a gypsy in the whole Court who hasn't had his fortune told five times over, and a different story every time."

"You're the one who said I needed to practice!"

Margaret tried to interject. "You can practice on me, if you like. Ah, but, I don't really believe in superstitions. They're a bit heathen."

At the word "heathen," Esmeralda's green eyes narrowed, but she said nothing as she took a pack of cards from the pouch at her waist. She handed them to Margaret. "OK, think about a question that's important to you, then shuffle the deck."

"Pardon?"

"Shuffle it. You know. Mix it up."

Margaret felt herself blush. She placed the deck on the table, then spread the individual cards all over its surface. One of the cards hung poised on the edge. Djali the goat crept up, glanced at the humans, and took the card furtively in his teeth, then crept away to enjoy his snack in privacy.

Esmeralda laughed at Margaret. "What are you doing?"

"I was just trying to mix them up."

Clopin joined the merriment, his head thrown so far back that his long nose pointed straight at the ceiling.

"Not like that!" Esmeralda gathered up the cards, put her hands on Margaret's, and demonstrated a proper shuffle. "There. Don't forget to focus on your question. What do you want to know?"

"Can't you just tell my future?" Margaret didn't like the prospect of mentioning Frollo, let alone the charges against her family.

"It needs to be more specific. I can't tell your whole life. I'm not that good yet."

Clopin chuckled and plopped down on one of the beds. He sat with his long legs drawn up and his arms draped over his knees

Margaret stammered under the pressure of the gypsies' mocking smiles. "I suppose. . . . Can you tell me if I'll ever . . . ever . . . be wed?"

Esmeralda smirked and tossed her black curls. "Of course. That's a popular question. Now, cut the deck into six parts and put them on the table." Margaret looked around for a knife to do the cutting, until Esmeralda took her hands again and helped her divide the deck. Esmeralda took the top card from the first pile and placed it face up on the table. "Ooh, the Six of Scepters. That's a good one. It means hope. I bet you hope you'll get out of here, don't you?"

Clopin squinted at the cards in the candlelight, then jumped to his feet. "Ah! But look, cherie. The card is reversed." Esmeralda gasped at her mistake and hesitated.

"What does that mean?" Margaret asked, reluctantly.

Clopin elegantly waved his gloved hand over the table. "The card reversed means the opposite of that which it symbolizes. The Six of Scepters reversed means hope thwarted or unjustified. To be precise, it means treachery."

Margaret looked away. "That's not my future. That's in my past. Or so they say."

Esmeralda hummed to herself. "I'm pretty sure these cards are only your future. But if you know what's coming, I guess you can be more careful, right?"

Clopin grinned. "At least no one here is going to betray you-you know exactly how we feel about you."

Esmeralda jabbed him with her elbow. "Let's move on, shall we? Ooh, the Lovers!"

Margaret felt a prickling of the blood in her cheeks.

Clopin chuckled. "But this does not always mean _l'amour, oui, ma cherie_?"

"Right," Esmeralda said. "Sometimes the cards say just what they seem to, and sometimes you have to look deeper. For you, I think the Lovers just means a choice. Or finding someone who makes you complete."

Margaret hoped they wouldn't bring up her fiance, about whom no one here seemed capable of saying anything pleasant. "I'm not sure I know anyone who's very much like me."

"Not yet you don't." Esmeralda smiled impishly, one eyebrow raised, and turned over the next card. "I think this is him!"

"The Page of Cups," Clopin announced.

"He's my favorite. He's a young person with a big imagination, who likes to make things. He might be a little moody, too. He's usually an artist-I'm sure this one's an artist."

Margaret tried to imagine Frollo as an artist. He could perhaps write gloomy and austere religious poems. Esmeralda turned over the next card, and all three stopped smiling. The image was of a man hanging on a cross by his feet, upside-down.

"I don't want to do this anymore," Margaret said. "I told you I don't believe in these heathen superstitions."

For the first time, Clopin's smile seemed less manic, more gentle. "No need to fear. The Hanged Man can mean many things. Tell us what he means today, Esmeralda."

Esmeralda's wild green eyes met Margaret's own mild, dark gaze. "I think it means sacrifice. And looking at things a different way. Because the Hanged Man is upside-down, see? It's not a very comfortable place to be, but sometimes you have to give up a way of looking at things, to grow and change." Margaret looked away. She was already a woman. She didn't need a child telling her to grow up.

The next card drew an even worse reaction. "What's that supposed to be?" Margaret exclaimed. "It looks like a devil!"

Esmeralda rubbed the back of her neck. "Well, it is, but. . . ."

"Put those horrible things away at once!" Margaret shrank from the table as if the Devil himself might leap out from the card and devour her.

"But it isn't the real Devil." Esmeralda's sing-song, fortune-telling tone changed to defensive frustration. "It's just a symbol."

"Of what? The horrors that await anyone who dabbles in this wretched sorcery, I suppose."

"It's just a warning," Esmeralda said. "It means getting trapped by something you want. If you know about it, you might be able to escape it. But not if you're stupid and pigheaded."

"I shall escape it this moment if you put those awful cards away."

"But we're almost at the end. Just one more. You'll see, it'll get better, I promise. Don't you want to see the last one?"

Margaret grasped her hair and stroked it like a child with a blanket. "Oh, if you want to look, I suppose you can do as you like."

The final card revealed the image of a skeleton astride a gaunt horse. The white bone hands wielded a scythe that shone silver against a white full moon. The image dominated the room, swallowing every attempt at explanation or comment. Even the little goat crept further into the shadows.

Clopin rocked nonchalantly on his feet. "Well, I must say, she's got an awful lot of the Major Arcana.* Are you sure you shuffled the deck properly?"

A knock at the door startled the two girls, but Clopin remained blase, as if he had known all along that the sound was coming. He opened the door for a bent, wiry man with patchy hair that stood out in every direction.

"His Majesty's called the council," he said. "Frollo's going to bargain for the girl."

Esmeralda stroked Margaret's hand. "See? Everything's going to be fine. I'm sure there's nothing in the cards. It wasn't a very good shuffle, like Clopin said."

Clopin flourished his hat and bowed. "Don't take the cards too much to heart, Mademoiselle. Remember, our _petite _Esmeralda still has a lot of practicing to do."

"Hey!"

* * *

Ragenard had been King of the Gypsies since before Clopin was born. He didn't look the part, at least to Clopin, who thought a gypsy king was entitled to present himself with a bit more dramatic flair. Instead, Ragenard was stolid as a guild master, with his heavy-lidded eyes and wide jowls beginning to fall slack with age. When he called the council meetings, he sat in a rickety chair that looked like a mockery of a throne. He seemed unaware of the ironic effect, seated as he was on the scaffold the gypsies used to execute spies.

Clopin loved the explosion of colors that the gypsy crew formed whenever they gathered for the council. Orange flashed against blue, and yellow against purple, his favorite combination. He fell to studying the contrasts so intensely, he almost missed the substance of the debate.

"Frollo has agreed to meet us at the cathedral," Ragenard said, "so we have nothing to fear of any double-dealing. Whatever tricks he may try, not even he would dare attack us on the steps of Notre Dame herself."

Clopin shook himself from his artistic reverie. "You're not seriously thinking of meeting with him?" he shouted. He hadn't meant to confront the King, but the shock lifted his high, clear voice over the murmur of the crowd.

Ragenard surveyed his audience in search of the speaker. "Ah, it's you, Clopin. Ah, yes." He shifted in his throne like a boy caught in ignorance by his schoolmaster. "Well, I believe it's all we can do. After all, we took the girl for the purpose-"

"_Pardonnez-moi_, Your Majesty," Clopin interrupted, "but we took the girl first and foremost in self-defense. If Frollo never sees his little mademoiselle again, I'll be satisfied. Besides, he wouldn't uphold any bargains with us. The man's a judge, a lawyer. Whatever deal he strikes with us, he'll find some loophole."

Esmeralda looked up at Clopin's face, searching for a sign of tenderness behind the frown that he always wore during council meetings. She didn't care much for Margaret and her talk of witchcraft, but she hated the executions, as much as Clopin seemed to relish them. It was the only point of contention between them. She wasn't sure what he was contemplating, but she knew which way the scales tipped.

"I understand your concerns," Ragenard said, "and believe me, it is a possibility I have considered with great care." Even as he spoke, he seemed to fall into contemplation. His brow sunk over his small eyes, until they seemed to disappear. "But on the whole, I think it is a chance we must take. Our lot as a people could turn on this one chance."

Clopin crossed his arms and sulked. "Mark my words, _ma cherie_," he muttered to Esmeralda, "It will come to a bad end."

* * *

*The Major Arcana are like the suits of the Tarot deck. They're rarer than the other groups and reflect the deeper forces behind everyday affairs.

***"Cursum Perficio"**

Verbum sapienti:

quo plus habent,

eo plus cupiunt.

Post nubila, Phoebus

Iternum

**Translation**

I finish the course.

A word to the wise:

the more people have,

the more they want.

After the clouds, Phoebus.

My journey ends here.


	12. The Servants of Baal

Author's Note: Thank you so much for your patience on this one. A number of my previous chapters were written long before they were published, and my store of chapters eventually ran out. School comes first, you know.

Musical Recommendations: "Thus Saith the Lord" and "Thou Shalt Break Them" from Handel's "Messiah."

* * *

The Archdeacon grew cautiously optimistic when Minister Frollo began appearing daily at Notre Dame. It seemed that the Minister was at last taking proper care of his ward in the bell tower. This optimism vanished once the Archdeacon realized the true reason for the visits. The Minister came not to visit his ward, who was still left primarily to the care of the bell ringer. He came to prepare for his much-talked-of exchange with the gypsies. The Archdeacon wished he could share the common sentiment of the citizens, that this meeting would usher in a new era of peace, but his aging eyes could still read the shifting angles of the Minister's thin lips.

"I have of course taken measures to ensure that the cathedral is kept safe from any heathen trickery they may attempt," Frollo said as the two ended their circuit of the nave at the entrance to the cathedral.

"Have you any reason to suspect their treachery?" the Archdeacon asked wearily.

Frollo chuckled. "You ask for some further assurance apart from their appearance and infamy? I place no faith in their respect for holy ground. Why should they refrain from their customary behavior, simply because they stand before God's holy church? They are pagans."

"Then why do you insist on making the exchange here?"

"To allay their own fears. They are so duplicitous, they look for deception from all they bargain with. They have some fantastical notion that I may not deal uprightly with them."

The Archdeacon had long ago learned to suppress his reactions to the Minister's hypocrisy. He forced himself to adopt his most gentle, pastoral tone. "Do you not think, Minister Frollo, that even among the unconverted, there might be some sense of righteousness? The venerable ancients-"

"-The men of Greece and Rome had philosophy and occasional glimpses of divine inspiration, I grant you. These pagans of our time are wholly unenlightened. They are like the people of Canaan."

"And I fear you presume that you have received a divine mandate to treat them as such."

"Did not Our Lord decree that the Promised Land be swept clean of the worshippers of Baal and all their heathen ilk?"

"You liken palm-readers and pickpockets to a race that sacrificed their own infants to a demon, throwing them in-" The Archdeacon stopped himself. Both men stood frozen on the steps of the cathedral. Both were schooled in the Scriptures, and both knew the method of sacrifice to Baal, the histories that recounted a gaping pit of fire into which the sacrifices were thrown. The town square that extended from the steps of the cathedral lay almost deserted, but for the Minister's soldiers, as it had one chill night three years ago. A plume of white snowflakes blew over the mouth of the precinct well. The Archdeacon longed to turn and study the Minister's face. Did he once again fear for his soul when reminded of the night he tried to hurl into the depths the foundling that now lay in the bell tower, with only a young boy, the birds, and the statues for company? Did he regret his cruelty, averted just in time by the Archdeacon's intervention?

The Archdeacon himself regretted that night, when he gave the child to the Minister to raise. He had fallen prey to his own sense of power, just like the Minister himself, who that night had cowered before the cathedral, the blood of the child's mother on his hands. The Archdeacon had thought to take advantage of the Minister's righteous fear, to ensure that the sense of awe would be renewed every time the Minister looked at the strange features of the unhappy child. The child for his part was to have the advantage of a wealthy and powerful patron, if not a father, who would see to his upbringing, shield him from the prejudice of the people, and provide for his physical needs. These necessities the Minister did provide, though everything he gave the child was crude and plain, purportedly to suit the child's station as a future servant of the Church. As for fatherly affection, the Minister had been away from the City so much that year (courting a noblewoman, it was rumored), that the Archdeacon wondered if the child even recognized his adoptive father.

Lady Agnes rode up and startled the Archdeacon from his contemplation. "You seem to have the precinct well secured. But you don't suppose the scoundrels will appear on schedule?"

The square echoed to the sound of the cathedral bells ringing the evening curfew. At the far end of the square, a dark mass began to emerge from the side streets and gather in the open, like a viscous liquid flowing out of the cracks and pooling on the paving stones.

Frollo cocked his head and smiled at Lady Agnes. "You were saying?"

* * *

Margaret tried to keep up with her captors, but time and again she tripped and found herself painfully dragged over the cobbles. It didn't help that her curiosity was getting the better of her fear. It was not only her first time in Paris, but the first time she had been outside for days, and she couldn't resist gawking. She peered in every direction, trying to make out the shops and homes on the edge of the square, and Notre Dame herself, like a sheer cliff before them. She wished she weren't so short; she couldn't even see Frollo through the crowd, but she recognized his voice instantly.

"I have thus far acceded to your demands," he said, "but here I must be firm. A simultaneous exchange cannot be accomplished; I have thirty and you have one. I stand before Notre Dame, and I give you my word to release the prisoners once I have the girl. You have nothing by which to assure me of your good faith. Release the girl, or this encounter is finished."

A murmur passed through the gypsy crowd. Margaret's legs and arms rattled in their sockets. The gypsies had given her a cloak no worse than they wore themselves, but it couldn't compare to her old squirrel-lined mantle. She prayed the haggling wouldn't drag on much longer. She heard the gypsy leader stammer some kind of response, but his voice didn't carry as well as Frollo's and she couldn't make out the words. Whatever it was, it made someone furious. A voice that sounded like Clopin's barked out and then fell silent. Hands in the torchlit darkness pushed her from behind and pulled her forward. She emerged beneath the muzzles of two horses, one black and one white. Unsure what to do, she glanced back and forth between the two. She wasn't schooled in the etiquette of greeting saviors in public. Frollo glanced at her out of the corner of his eye but paid her no more heed. For some reason, a sting in the back of her throat threatened tears, but she swallowed them back. For the first time, she realized her exhaustion.

Lady Agnes slid from her mount and spread her arms wide, like a mother encouraging a toddling child to come. "You poor thing!" Margaret stumbled into the older woman's embrace. The door to the cathedral creaked open. As she shuffled in under Lady Agnes's wing, Margaret peered back at her captors. She had just enough time to see Frollo's soldiers unlocking the chains of the gypsy prisoners. One of them was a boy not much older than Esmeralda.

In her excitement, she had forgotten to say goodbye to Esmeralda and Clopin.

* * *

Clopin jiggled one leg. Release of the prisoners was taking too long. He caught one of the soldiers fumbling. He wouldn't put it past Frollo's goons to be wholly inept, but there was something too studied about the way the man tried one key after another. A hiss broke the silence. Frollo's monstrous black stallion tossed its head, and Lady Agnes's white mare reared with a whinny. Clopin threw his hat to the ground. It was an arrow, from their direction, that lodged itself in the door of the cathedral.

"Stop!" Frollo called to his men. "Do not release the prisoners! We're under attack!" The Archdeacon tried to interpose and begged Frollo to restrain his men until the situation was clear. Another arrow came whistling and, to Clopin's delight, lodged itself in the peak of Frollo's chaperon. Frollo tore the hat from his head and stared at the desecration. Clopin could almost sympathize; a handsome hat was a terrible casualty. Frollo ripped out the shaft and hurled it to the ground. "I will not stand by while these heathens attack our holy cathedral! Arrest them, all of them!"

Clopin turned around and shoved back everyone within reach. "Run! Everyone separate! Do not return to the Court! Go anywhere but there! Do not lead them to the Court!" He cursed Ragenard and his foolish agreement to bring such a large contingent, all unarmed. He cursed the fool who gambled with all their lives by trying to assassinate Frollo. And most of all he cursed the idiotic girl who had played into Frollo's scheme, and probably worked for him all along. Mounted soldiers appeared from behind the cathedral and began to herd the gypsies. Clopin broke free. Grinning madly, he launched himself onto a long black stretch of ice. His smooth-soled shoes carried him along as gracefully as any pair of skates. The horse behind him tried to follow, but its hooves flew in all directions. It fell flat on its belly, its rider shouting curses and kicking its flanks. Momentarily forgetting the danger, Clopin whooped with joy.

His triumph was cut short by the sight of a figure too small to be in their group. Clopin felt his stomach drop to the soles of his feet. He had spent hours convincing Esmeralda not to come, and he had entrusted her to the women in the Court. He should have known she would misuse the skills of evasion he taught her. Just when he was sure the situation could not be worse, the figure of a huge Flemish stallion galloped into his peripheral vision. Driving the beast on, directly towards Esmeralda, was a tall rider dressed all in black with a chaperon Clopin knew only too well.

"Look out!" Clopin shouted. "You maniac!" The horse thundered on. Clopin dashed toward Esmeralda with long, leaping strides. At the final jump, his elegance disappeared. He was a human missile, propelled from the catapult of his own long legs. He felt the yielding impact of a small body and heard the peal of the horse's hooves all around him.


	13. The Queen's Gambit

Author's Note: The Queen's Gambit is an opening chess move in which one player sacrifices a pawn in front of her queen in exchange for a pawn from the opposing side. And now for a Lewis Carroll quote:

"I declare it's marked out just like a large chessboard!" Alice said at last. "There ought to be some men moving about somewhere — and so there are!" she added in a tone of delight, and her heart began to beat quick with excitement as she went on. "It's a great huge game of chess that's being played — all over the world — if this IS the world at all, you know. Oh, what fun it is! How I wish I was one of them! I wouldn't mind being a Pawn, if only I might join — though of course I should like to be a Queen, best."

She glanced rather shyly at the real Queen as she said this, but her companion only smiled pleasantly, and said, "That's easily managed. You can be the White Queen's Pawn, if you like, as Lily's too young to play; and you're in the Second Square to began with: when you get to the Eighth Square you'll be a Queen."

-"Through the Looking Glass," Chapter 2

Musical Recommendation: "The Girl with the Flaxen Hair" by Debussy. Listen to the original, but don't miss out on Joshua Bell's violin rendition.

* * *

The clopping of horse's hooves died away. Clopin lay on the cobbles just long enough for two snowflakes to settle on his nose. Then he leapt to his feet, brushing aside what he thought was Esmeralda's helping hand.

"I'm quite alright, _ma cherie_-"

"_Oh la la_!" cried a strange woman's voice. "You are quite the brazen _gitan_. I was only trying to help a fellow citizen. No need to be so familiar."

Clopin started. He donned his hat, the best way he knew to reorient himself. "Forgive me, Mademoiselle. I. . . . " He turned to see Frollo riding after the last retreating gypsies. In a panic, his eyes darted in search of Esmeralda. She appeared at his side, holding the hand of a young woman with a drawn face and mocking eyes. She would have looked unpleasant, but for her smiling mouth.

"You must have powerful charms to survive an encounter with that beast," the woman said. "I could use your kind of luck. If you'll come with me, I have a room at the inn where you and _ta petite_ could come in from the cold."

Clopin smirked at her use of _ta_. "Who's being familiar now?" Oddly enough, he was not surprised to find his own grin mirrored in the face of the strange woman.

Esmeralda tugged his hand. "Come on, they're getting away!"

"_Zut alors_!" Clopin cried, slapping his forehead. "Come, _ma cherie_-" He snatched Esmeralda's hand. She stumbled to keep up with his madcap stride.

"Eh!" the woman called. "You'll never catch them on foot!"

"No soldier knows the streets of Paris like a gypsy," Clopin shouted back.

"But _la enfant_! _Arretez_! Don't take her into danger!"

Clopin skid to a stop so sudden that Esmeralda slammed into him. She steadied herself and peered into his face. Clopin knew magical powders that could change a fire to brilliant hues, even green. Esmeralda's determined eyes were the only other source of that phosphorescent gleam. He feared crossing her when he saw that light, but he couldn't bear to be responsible for any harm that might come to her.

The woman caught up to them and stood gasping for breath. "If you insist on mixing yourself up with the Minister of Injustice, at least keep _la _e_nfant _out of harm's way. Let me keep her safe, and you take my horse for the chase."

Clopin started. He wasn't sure how much more surprise he could stand in one night. He was the one who shocked and surprised others; this confusion was threatening to undermine his sense of self. "You would loan your horse to a strange gypsy? Hardly a shrewd gamble, Mademoiselle." She didn't seem like the foolhardy type.

"Typically not, but you'll come back for _la enfant_. And if you don't, she deserves a less careless caretaker."

Clopin clutched his hat in agony at the dilemma and glanced back and forth between Esmeralda and the retreating soldiers. Esmeralda's head twitched "no." She would be furious with him for leaving her behind, but the horse was too tempting an offer to pass up. On horseback, he could reach the Court entrance in time to turn away any frightened gypsies who led Frollo's men to their hideout. He feigned an air of nonchalance. "If Mademoiselle wishes to aid the insurrection, who am I to deny her?"

"Good. Follow me."

"_Mais, un moment_. Your name, Mademoiselle, so I can find you and _la enfant _again."

"Collette Lefabre."

* * *

A week had passed since Frollo's gambit with the gypsies had proved such an infuriating failure. All the vermin had scattered, and though a few had been captured, not one had led his men to the Court or confessed its location. He was tempted to blame the spy who had fired the arrows. Perhaps if he had waited longer to shoot, the chaos would have been greater and the gypsies more likely to return to their hideout. But he found it more satisfying to lay the blame on the long-legged fool who had warned the others against returning to the Court.

Margaret, too, was responsible in his mind, and he couldn't bear to look at her simpering face. Fortunately, she seemed at last to sense his aversion and clung to his mother. Tonight the three were once again together in one of his mother's rooms, as they had been every night since Margaret's arrival-Lady Agnes seated before the fire with Margaret at her feet, Frollo writing at the desk with his back to the women. It was so quiet, Frollo could hear the silken whisper of the comb sliding through Margaret's hair.

Her first night at the Palace, Margaret had thrown herself into some sort of irrational feminine outburst while trying to brush her hair. It fell in waves and curled at the ends, properties that apparently made it difficult to comb. Frollo didn't know much about it. When Margaret ended up with the comb caught in her hair, his mother had tenderly untangled it. All the while she murmured about their lost Jehan, how his hair used to curl and tangle just the same, and how she had learned over the years the way to loosen the knots without causing any pain. Now she combed Margaret's hair every night.

Frollo ground his teeth. He glanced over his shoulder at Margaret, who had come dredging up these memories. It was no good for his mother to upset herself with painful thoughts of the past. She was weakened enough after riding out to Notre Dame the night of Margaret's release. Recently she had taken to smelling her handkerchief and developed a moist, violent cough. He should never have permitted her to come that night.

Lady Agnes caught him looking. "I do believe she's regaining her bloom, don't you think so, Claude?"

Frollo spun back around to his desk. "Quite possibly it's the heat of the fire. You oughtn't let her sit so close."

Lady Agnes ignored him. "She has an unusual complexion, don't you think?"

"Whatever are you on about?" Frollo asked.

"Light hair and dark eyes. I've rarely seen the two together. Except for-I hardly need say." The familiar tone of martyrdom rose in her voice.

Frollo wrinkled his nose and sealed another execution sentence in red wax.

"Is it really necessary for you to work so late?" Lady Agnes asked.

"Not if you'd like me to be utterly buried in work tomorrow."

Lady Agnes half-clapped her hands by tapping her fingertips together. "I know! You could play a game of chess with Margaret. A little rest from your work and you'll be twice as productive."

"I don't-"

Margaret interrupted. "I'd love to, but I don't know how to play chess." Lady Agnes peered at her, as though suspicious that Margaret was only trying to avoid her son. Margaret defended her position. "I used to play 'le jeu plaisant' with my maid, but we never played chess. It seemed awfully confusing. Collette said it wasn't any fun, because the pieces couldn't change. She liked turning all her pieces into kings."

Frollo chuckled. "Your friend was no student of the _scala naturae_ I gather?"*

"I'm sorry, I don't know what-"

"Stop interjecting your philosophy into everything, Claude," Lady Agnes said. "Come and teach Margaret how to play, and then we'll leave you to your work."

Frollo thought it a hard bargain to drive, but he was desperate for any release from his mother's prattling.

* * *

Margaret tried to remember all the moves as Frollo had taught her before they began, but none of the patterns would stick in her mind. Time and again she moved a piece, only to find Frollo's bony fingers clutching her own and guiding her hand in a different direction. These forced moves were usually not advantageous, but when she tried to choose another piece, Frollo reminded her that once the piece was touched, it had to be moved. Margaret thought it was unfair, forcing someone to continue down the wrong path after a slight error in judgment. She lost her queen at the beginning of the game, and soon was left with no more than four pawns, a rook, and the king. She stroked and twisted her hair until Lady Agnes gently pried her fingers away.

"Careful, dearest. You'll tangle it up again." She stroked Margaret's shoulder. "I'm sure Claude's strategies are most helpful, but would you like to know the real secret to defeating him?" Margaret looked up. Most women in portraits she had seen were stylized to look remote yet perceptive, as if they knew everything and were unimpressed by all of it. Lady Agnes needed no artist. "The secret, you see, is not to watch the board, but to watch him."

Frollo sipped at his goblet. His black eyes smiled disdainfully above the rim.

"My Claude isn't like most people. If he smiles, it generally means something unpleasant is going to happen to someone, and you must be very cautious. If he frowns, it usually means good things for other people, so you can rest easy."

Frollo set down the goblet and leaned forward, his back arched like one of the gargoyles Margaret had glimpsed at Notre Dame.

"But of course," Lady Agnes continued, "I've displeased him now, and he'll frown the rest of the night, no matter how you plan to move." She gathered up her embroidery and turned as though revolving on a platform hidden beneath her floor-length skirts. "Forgive me, I must retire early. I trust the two of you to finish your game in short order and go to bed."

Margaret panicked. Her protector was leaving her alone with a man. "Oh, we don't need to finish. He's going to win anyway."

"Nonsense, child. You mustn't let me ruin your fun. Good night. And Claude-don't sit too close to the fire. You'll overheat yourself again."

Frollo looked up, his mouth open as though about to speak. For the first time since Margaret had known him, he seemed at a loss. Before he could form the words, Lady Agnes left in a whisper of silk, leaving a trail of rose water scent that lingered in the room and mingled with the smoke of the fireplace.

After the door closed, there came a sound of violent coughing in the hall outside.

* * *

*The "ladder of nature" or Great Chain of Being, the medieval concept of the world as ordered by God in a pre-ordained hierarchy.


	14. Sins of Omission

Author's Note: I wish I didn't have to write this disclaimer-I realize that I probably have my readers' trust-but I've seen too many good fics go downhill after the first few chapters. So here goes: This story is absolutely not turning into FrolloxOC. That's all I'm going to say for now; I prefer to let the story speak for itself.

Musical Recommendation: "Bachen Bene Venies" by Modo Antiquo (search for micrologus2 on YouTube). A good old medieval drinking song.

Margaret's gaze roamed over the board in search of the fastest way to let Frollo win. If she moved her king one space to the right, she would be in the path of his bishop. That would end the game, and they could both go to bed.

"Oh no you don't," he said, moving her king back to the safe position.

"I thought you're supposed to beat me."

"You can't move your king into danger. It isn't permitted."

Margaret sighed. Of course he wouldn't bend the rules, just this once. At least they were speaking again. "Do you think Lady Agnes is alright?"

Frollo peered at the board and rubbed his wrist. He wondered how she dared suggest that he hadn't followed his mother's condition with all solicitude.

"Do you really think she's well enough for a ball?" Margaret asked, referring to the celebration Lady Agnes was planning in honor of her rescue. "That's an awfully bad cough."

"No doubt the city atmosphere does not agree with her. I told her she needed rest, not a fortnight of commotion over a wasteful amusement. To no avail, of course."

Aware that she was responsible for the commotion, Margaret decided to change the subject. "Who was she talking about just now?"

"Just when?"

"She said I reminded her of someone you know."

Frollo turned away from the board, although it was his turn to move. "I can only assume she refers to my brother, Jehan."

"I thought you had a brother!" Margaret thought back to golden Sunday morning masses at home. She was a child, and wore her hair loose. When no one was watching to scold her, she would perch on the gravestones and watch the parishioners enter the gray archway with measured steps. Among them every Sunday was Lady Agnes, accompanied by young Frollo and a tow-headed boy not many years older than she. She had always liked him, even though he foiled her attempts to gain the attention of his elegant, black-haired older brother. In her world of close family and servants, Frollo was the only person who seemed neither to know nor care who Margaret was or what she thought about anything. The more he ignored her, the more he fascinated her, the more his merry companion responded to her smiles and curtsies, as though he were picking up a toy ball she tossed in their direction. She had even once heard him call her "his little admirer." She wondered what he would say all these years later, when she told him the real object of her attentions. "Will I perhaps get to meet him soon?"

"He's been dead these eleven years."

Margaret's mouth, uncertain what to do, began twitching into an awkward grimace. She bit her tongue to stop it. "I'm so sorry. I think I saw him years ago, when I was young. He was always smiling-"

"He was debauched, a profligate."

Margaret searched for a solemn reply, but instead found herself smirking and snapping back, "Quite unlike his brother, I suppose."

Frollo stared, uncertain whether it was in Margaret's nature to be arch. Her tight, mischievous smile confirmed his fear. She was flirting with him.

Catching his stern gaze, Margaret looked down at her lap. "I'm sorry. That was very improper."

Frollo was too absorbed in contemplation of the fireplace to notice her apology. "I did what I could to restrain him-I was practicing law in Paris when he was at the University. We roomed together, and I saw his companions, the way he spent his days. I knew it would be the death of him. I told him as much, a thousand times."

Margaret began to ask what happened, but changed her mind and closed her mouth. Even if it were the right thing to ask, Frollo was too distant for her to reach. He seemed to be reading the fire, the way she had seen one of the gypsy women scrying in a crystal ball.

"The night of his death, I endeavored to keep him at home. But his companions had organized an entertainment of sorts-a crew of gypsies, some men but mostly women. They spent the night carousing, while I attempted to keep working over the din." He didn't tell her how he had at length put aside his books and descended the stairs, with determination to drag Jehan away and turn the rabble out at sword point. How one of the gypsy women had taunted him and dragged him into the circle, where he found himself flanked by drunken scholars who jostled him as though he were part of the dance. In that moment of confusion, haggard and lax of mind after hours and days of study, he had felt a passing thrill of sinful frivolity, had almost longed to be one of them, to throw all his books and parchment into the fire and follow the ragtag band into the night. Then one of the gypsy women threw her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek. Overcome with shameful delight, he hid his face from their laughter. After that, they had no more use for him. They danced out into the night, taking their music with them-the warbling voices of the students, the jingle of gypsy tambourines, the beguiling strains of the viol. Frollo stood alone in the wreckage left behind, nursing a wormwood bitterness.

He turned back to the chessboard and moved a piece at random. "My brother never returned. A night watchman found him, felled by a blow to the head. The gypsies responsible were never arrested." He did not share with her his memories of the night they found the body, when he stalked out alone on foot to the gypsy camp outside the city walls. He found one of their campfires unattended, burning low but steadily enough for his purposes. He adored fire, so useful and yet so beautiful. A gentle, contained domestic fire had a charm all its own, but his real fascination, his delight, was for the fire set by his own hands for a purpose, to consume and purify. Once again in his mind he watched the wagons collapse in ashes while he crouched in the dark thicket, sword in hand, waiting for the next gypsy to flee the bonfire.

He started at the realization that Margaret was repeating his name. "How did you know it was the gypsies?" she asked.

"What?"

"I mean, you said he was with friends. I suppose they saw the gypsies do it?"

Frollo sneered. "Those 'friends' of his were never seen again, to my knowledge."

"Did anyone think . . . that is . . . could they have done it?"

Frollo frowned and rubbed his temple, as if trying to coax patience out of it. "My dear, when one has a band of gypsies connected with such a crime, one need not look further. I should hardly expect you to defend them. But of course, they did return you to us unharmed. No doubt living among them for some time has clouded your perception. It is not an unheard-of phenomenon, to develop some loyalty, even attachment to one's captors."

"Oh, I wasn't defending them. I just didn't understand."

"Naturally. But they were not inordinately cruel to you?"

"No, quite the contrary-"

"They feared my retribution if they should abuse you. And you're quite certain you know nothing of the place they kept you?"

Margaret squirmed and recrossed her ankles. This was the third time he had broached that subject. Twice before Lady Agnes had told him to stop importuning their guest with questions she couldn't answer. Each time, Margaret said nothing, not even about her suspicion that she had been kept somewhere underground. Whenever Frollo mentioned gypsies, Margaret saw Esmeralda's jewel-green eyes and heard her whispered pleas. It pierced her to think that someone like Frollo could be so convinced of the right, yet threaten those she knew were innocent. She wondered what would happen if that sense of duty were ever turned on her. She pretended to be absorbed in the chess game. "Oh! Check."

Frollo tried to recreate the last few moves to determine how such a thing could possibly have happened. Even though he had the excuse of distraction, he was disgusted at the thought of Margaret gaining the upper hand.

Margaret avoided looking at the board, as though it represented a faux pas on her part. Whatever she did, she felt like an imposition on her savior and host. She toyed with the ruby pendant he had given her that still hung round her neck. "I suppose we'll be hearing from my mother soon. I wonder if she'll come in time for the ball." She thought it best not to speak of her father. When she had first arrived at the Palace, she had diplomatically mentioned "my father" by the hour, until Frollo began to glare at the very sound of the word "my." She resigned herself to wait on his judgment. No doubt he was doing the best he could to help his future father-in-law.

Frollo pursed his lips. It was in that very room not two nights past that he read his mother a letter from Lady Bertaut, recounting Margaret's disappearance and expressing the hope that Margaret had sought Frollo's aid, as her mother suspected. She closed with a prayer that Frollo would look kindly on the family until the truth of Lord Bertaut's fate should be revealed. Notably, she said nothing about her location, and the messenger himself had received the letter from a stranger. After reading it, Frollo and Lady Agnes had together agreed it would be prudent to shield Margaret from the family disgrace and keep her in Paris. No good could come from bringing her mother there and strengthening Frollo's connection to the traitor. Frollo wasn't entirely sure that Lady Bertaut hasn't sent Margaret to him on purpose to persuade him in their case. No doubt she trusted in Margaret's supposed romantic hold over her betrothed. Ignoring Lady Agnes's halfhearted protests, Frollo had tenderly consigned the letter to the fireplace.

He smiled condescendingly at Margaret. "I highly doubt your message to her could travel so quickly this time of year. I would prepare for rather a long wait." Margaret folded her hands and nodded. "Checkmate," he intoned.

Margaret exhaled and stood up. The wooden feet of her chair scraped over the stone floor. "Well played, Your Honor. Thank you for teaching me how to play. I hope to be a better opponent next time."

Frollo's condescending smile became more strained as she passed to his side of the table.

"All this time, I haven't been able to properly thank you for rescuing me," she said. "I realize now what you must have gone through, trying to help me, knowing what happened to your brother."

Frollo was no longer smiling. He stared at Margaret the way so many commoners had looked up at him when he pronounced their sentence from the bench.

"May I take the liberty?" she asked. He didn't have time to reply or defend himself. While he sat bewitched, she leaned in, and placed her lips on his cheek. For many years, all he had felt there were his mother's tepid, dry kisses. He had not felt the firm, moist warmth of a young mouth in years, not since the night of Jehan's last revel. A lock of her hair tickled his neck. It smelled like violets-a clean, light fragrance compared to the heady sweetness of his mother's rose water.

He didn't see how she left the room. He only realized at length that he was again alone. Long into the night, he struggled to decide whether the pounding in his temples signified anger or some other feeling with which he was less familiar.


	15. Safekeeping

Author's Note: In which creepy Frollo impersonates Aschenbach from "Death in Venice."

It was a real medieval tradition that the Virgin Mary was dark-haired, and Eve was blond. Blond was associated with ladies in the courtly love tradition, but also with ladies of ill repute. Brown was a more decent, modest color.

For those into Egyptology, the feather in the scale inverts an Egyptian myth. When a soul first arrived in the afterlife, the heart was weighed against the feather of truth. If the heart was weighed down with evil deeds, a crocodile would swallow it.

Musical Recommendation: "Magnificat" by Arvo Part. Part is a minimalist composer from Estonia. His heavy but melodic work may elevate you into an awestruck trance.

* * *

Lady Agnes knew she was not well enough to attend Mass, but she refused to remain at home, both for the sake of her soul and to avoid the inevitable gossip that her absence would cause. Not to mention she wanted to keep an eye on her son and their guest. Claude was distant as always, but the nature of his inwardness had changed. Before, he kept to himself by sitting with his eyes burning into the invisible form of an abstract idea. Now when he stared, he looked like one of the expressionless kings on the cathedral.

Margaret, on the other hand, was even more buoyant than Lady Agnes had ever seen her. Today in particular, the girl seemed enraptured by every sense impression. The sunlight through the stained glass and the candlelight tangled themselves in her light hair. Jehan's hair. Nothing about the girl met the standards of beauty-her round face and stubby form contrasted with the slim elegance favored in portraiture, and her pale skin was peppered with freckles. Even her hair, though the preferred color, lacked the silken smoothness that women desired. But each of these features repeated Jehan's, and warmed Lady Agnes into a fervor as no beauty could.

She whispered to her son. "Doesn't she look like a little Virgin Mary, with that angelic expression?" Speaking brought on another cough, which she smothered with her handkerchief.

Frollo glanced at the girl. "They say Eve was the blond one."

* * *

After the service, Margaret crept as close as she could to the rood screen. She wanted a better look at the tiny figures in the rose window, especially the Virgin Mary and the Christ child. She had overheard Lady Agnes comparing her to the Virgin, and was still overwhelmed with delight, if not a little vanity. But as the nave emptied, she realized she had lost Lady Agnes and Frollo. She wove her way among the pillars to the entrance, when she noticed a familiar red sash disappearing into the shadows of a spiral staircase. She tripped after it, hoping to startle the unflappable Minister for once. But he retained his lead, his longer legs giving him the advantage.

He disappeared behind a door. Margaret hoped he wouldn't lock it. She waited until she was sure he wouldn't see her, then turned the handle.

The door led to the bell tower, the unseen region of the cathedral, where wooden beams crossed endlessly in the shadows, like refracted images of the rood. Margaret slackened her pace. The dim and silence of the tower made her somehow more reverent than she had been down below.

She was startled by Frollo's angry baritone reverberating in the expanse. She remembered what Lady Agnes had told her about the abandoned child that Frollo kept in the church. Her chest tightened at the thought of climbing the open staircase, but she gripped the rail and began the ascent.

At the top, she found Frollo and another, younger man standing with their backs to her. She couldn't tell what they were talking about. Something of greater interest had caught her eye.

Only a few paces away sat a wooden cradle. It was half covered with a wooden awning, which concealed its occupant. Margaret crept closer, and leaned forward. All she could see was a heap of bundled blankets. She poked them. The bundle collapsed. The cradle was empty.

A baby's voice gurgled above her head. When she saw where the child was, she opened her mouth to cry out, but fear had closed up her throat.

* * *

When Frollo turned around, he barely restrained the impulse to hurl Margaret against the nearest beam. Had Denis not been present, he might not have controlled himself. "Shall I never be rid of your constant importuning?" he shouted. "And keep away from that . . . creature. He's perfectly wild; he might attack you."

Margaret stared at the crooked child who still clung to a beam at least eight feet from the floor.

"I will not stand for this." Frollo snatched the child from his perch, and held the tiny body as though it were covered in thorns. He glared at Denis. "If you cannot control the creature, I will have you replaced. In light of your carelessness, I simply cannot compensate you today."

Denis's thick lip protruded farther, and his black eyes glowered above his jutting cheekbones. They said he was the illegitimate son of a Crusader and an Arabian woman. He certainly looked it now. "I told you before, I'll tell you again," he said. "Quasimodo's as safe in those rafters as a squirrel in the trees. And you couldn't keep him out of them anymore than you could keep a squirrel on the ground. You can hand him over to whoever you like, but they couldn't provide for the child any better than me."

Frollo deposited the hunchback in his cradle. He paced the room and pensively twisted the rings on his fingers. Then he turned to blast Denis. He didn't arrange his words with great care; it was a general, familiar tirade on respect, and the need to exercise vigilance when dealing with a creature marked by Satan. He could deliver it almost without thinking, and he devoted the remainder of his attention to Margaret. She had backed against a wooden support and folded in on herself like a hedgehog. Frollo couldn't suppress a smile, yet his pleasure was mixed. He reveled in showing her what was in some sense his truest self. Yet the sense of power was mingled with an unfamiliar vulnerability. His anger was the source of his power, but it was not his. It was a force that gripped him like demonic possession.

Worse still, his most intense fury was, as usual, powerless to ruffle Denis. The sullen bellringer-turned-nursemaid stood with his arms crossed and shoulders slumped. Frollo knew some of his barbs must be hitting somewhere, but he could achieve no satisfaction where his victim was so indifferent.

Winded, he rounded out the final point with a Ciceronian period and adjusted his chaperon. "Margaret!" She jumped to attention like one of his soldiers. "Where is my mother?"

"We got separated in the sanctuary, so I went looking for-"

"You knew I had obligations to attend to. You should have waited at the door. No doubt she is worsening her condition fretting over you."

"I'm so-ow!" Margaret grabbed her loose hair and looked down at the cradle, where Quasimodo sat with a fistful of her golden curls clasped in his chunky hand. She gingerly pried off the stubby fingers. Quasimodo gurgled, and his lips-the only perfect feature in his asymmetrical face-burst open to reveal a smattering of baby teeth. Margaret stared as if bewitched. A strange uneasiness came over Frollo. He felt as though he sat in a scale, with the other three on the opposite side, lifting him up like a feather. He grabbed Margaret's wrist and wrenched it towards himself. He pulled her along, but kept his gaze on Denis.

"I will allow you this one chance," he said. "You will receive no payment today, but I will not inform the Archdeacon of your misconduct. For the present. I shall look to see a significant improvement when I return."

That night, Frollo struggled through the _Exercises of St. Ignatius_, but his contemplation of the wedding at Cana kept transmogrifying into a vision of Margaret and Quasimodo. He feared the connection of their hands, the glance they shared, as if they were silently communing, conspiring against him. He was more comfortable thinking of the way they looked directly up at him, with wide, vigilant, animal eyes. He reminded himself that both were young, pliable. As Jehan had once been. He remembered the exchange with his mother that morning. How fitting-the girl truly was a mixture of the Virgin Mary and Eve, innocence and wily temptation mingled. Only a firm hand could draw out from her the taint of original sin, at least as far as the thorn could be drawn from any woman. It was unfortunate she had been exposed to so many negative influences in her youth. Once, passing by her empty room, he had seen a table stacked high with romances*. He had even found the _Decameron_, which so fascinated him with its disgusting tales of debauched monks and priests that he could not stop reading for an hour.

Margaret was now with his mother, and her room was never locked. Frollo shut St. Ignatius and rose from the desk.

* * *

"Frollo?"

Frollo stood at the window. He had not returned to St. Ignatius that night. He turned an unseeing, disinterested gaze toward the doorway. Margaret stood with a candle in her hand. Her eyes were bleary. "Have you seen my _Malory_?"

"Pardon?"

"My _Malory_-my _King Arthur_. I've looked everywhere for it. Lady Agnes wondered if it might have gotten mixed up with your books."

Frollo approached her. The fire threw his shadow all the way to the opposite wall. He gave her his most paternal smile. She looked like a small girl to him, so in need of guidance and not even aware of her lack. The thought of her helplessness warmed him. For the first time in his life, he thought he could understand a father's feelings. "My dear child. Did we not already have a discussion concerning your literary tastes?"

"I-I don't know. I didn't think we had."

"But of course. Do you forget? That day of our hunt with your mother, when we first met. You alluded to, I believe, Lancelot and Guinevere. And I told you, did I not, what I thought of young women reading such licentious material?"

"Oh . . . but . . . I don't think you did. That is, I guess I forgot."

"Indeed you must. But I have given a great deal of thought to our discussion, and to our relations with one another."

Margaret bowed her head. "I know. I've thought a lot about it. I've heard some of the things Lady Agnes has said to you. I know that there can't be anything between us until my father's name is cleared. And-"

"That is not what I mean to address. Of course, you are entirely correct, but I speak of another consideration. You are here separated from your mother and father, and my mother is in no condition to oversee you. It therefore falls upon me to guard your heart and mind in this admittedly awkward situation. I have therefore taken the liberty of disposing of all unsuitable literature in your possession. Indeed, I was deeply embarrassed that some of those volumes were kept on the premises."

He had never seen Margaret bristle before. "What did you do with them?" He glanced at the fireplace. It was contentedly digesting the remains of twelve or thirteen leather-bound volumes. Margaret knelt on the hearth and lay her hand on the wall. Her voice sounded deeper. "If you didn't want me to read them, I could have put them away."

Frollo stretched out his hand to stroke her hair. He remembered what it felt like against his neck. "I would have sought your permission, my dear, but I feared you might be too attached to them. I know that, above all else, you wish to make the right choices. In this case, I thought I should help you."

Margaret pulled her hair over her shoulder, out of his reach. "That's the second gift from my parents that you've destroyed. Is there anything else I should lock away for safekeeping?"

Frollo sniffed at her materialism, but could think of no appropriate response. Margaret stood up and left the room. The candle in her hand shook twice, and a drop of wax fell to the floor.

* * *

*In the Middle Ages, "romance" refers to fantasies and adventure stories about chivalrous knights. They could involve what we call romance, but they could also be straight adventure, or even satire.


	16. Gypsies, Tramps, and Troubadours

Author's Note: The alternate title of this chapter is "Gypsies, Tramps, and Transvestites."

Musical Recommendation: "The River Sings" by Enya. I love the sense of endless motion the song conveys. It's a bit wild, and its symbolic evocation of a river journey at night fits this chapter quite well.

* * *

Phoebus winced as one of the English sailors slapped him on the back, but his reaction wasn't a response to pain. It was hard at times to hide his disdain for the English, but he had to keep up the new friendships he had fostered since Commander Fitzhugh gave him free reign of the ship. He was their court jester, good for making a joke or serving as the butt, whichever presented itself. And since court jesters could not possibly be interested in great affairs, the English didn't refrain from discussing their plans while Phoebus lounged nearby or or brought their meals. It was through this position as cabin boy pro temp that Phoebus had learned the truth: that Sir Duval, the one escapee, had been paid to feed the French a story about English plans to capture Calais. Having diverted the French army, the English could pursue unmolested up the Seine towards Paris, their fleet scattered to avoid attention, their masts flying Venetian flags. When he relayed the news to Bertaut, the captain had warned him of the need for care, not only so he could obtain more intelligence, but so he could protect his own life.

Tonight, playing along was harder than usual. The men had been on shore leave to spy in the nearest town, gather perishable food, and gather a crew of gypsy women who didn't care if a man spoke halting French with an English accent. The women were now below deck, waiting for the festivities to begin, while the men moistened their throats and fired their bravado.

"Bet those dark girls never saw a lily face like yours, Sun God!" one of the men roared. Phoebus forced a laugh.

"What, him? They'd think he was a ghost! Let's bring him along."

"Naw, can't do that. He'd get all the attention."

Phoebus saw his opening. "Oh, that's alright. I can handle the mob." The men guffawed as if the quip were the height of comedic brilliance.

"That settles it," said the ringleader. "Throw the lad to them, and the good Lord have mercy on him!"

Phoebus didn't trust the sailors to let any gypsy woman leave the ship when the fun was over. But the Sun God knew a golden opportunity when it appeared.

After endless carousing, Phoebus managed to slip free from the embrace of a thin brown arm and scurry to the lower decks. He knew his way in the dark by feel, but excitement made him clumsy. He groped for an idea, a way to convince Bertaut to escape with him. But he knew his captain would never abandon his men, nor allow Phoebus to remain a prisoner when freedom beckoned. The thought of being separated, perhaps forever, from the one man he had sworn to follow even to the death left him colder than the thought of dying. He was relieved to find Bertaut alone, separated as usual from the other prisoners, pensive and quiet but no longer as desperate. Phoebus didn't wince when Bertaut clapped him on the back, though Bertaut's hand was much heavier than the sailors'.

They sat together on grain sacks, and Phoebus struggled to stay focused on his plans for escape, without thinking of how he could leave Bertaut behind. "Of course, they're all so drunk, I'll bet they wouldn't notice if you snuck out, too," he said.

Bertaut smirked. "No doubt I could shave my beard and blend right in." Phoebus chuckled, but he knew what was meant. Bertaut was only ironic when things were hopeless.

Phoebus never presumed to ask for heaven's aid. Nonetheless, he wondered if it would have been so difficult for some thoughtful angel to swoop down the night before and tell him that the next day he would be separated from his protector and friend. At least they might have properly said their goodbyes.

"I know you won't be able to contact me for some time," Bertaut said, "but if you could-might you look in on my wife and daughter when you return to Paris?" He spoke as if Phoebus were going to make a friendly visit to the capitol.

"The first thing I'll do when I reach the city," Phoebus said, "is make sure they're well cared-for. From the sound of it, I'll probably find Mademoiselle Margaret in the lap of luxury with her new husband." He didn't like the unfamiliar smile that spread itself over one side of Bertaut's face. "But logistics-we have to talk logistics. I mean, should I just waltz out with these girls? I've got to head back soon, I don't know when they'll leave-"

"I wouldn't worry too much," Bertaut said. "Sounds like your new friends up there will wait for you. Besides, you need time to freshen up before you head back to the party."

Phoebus had never thought of Bertaut as a schemer. But now he was more afraid of his captain's secret machinations than he had ever been facing a line of archers on horseback.

* * *

Phoebus's downy cheek flamed as though he were feverish. The blush perfectly complimented the green skirt and yellow blouse that Drina, one of the gypsy girls, had brought him. When he stepped forth in his disguise, Drina clapped her hands for joy.

"The little Master looks just like a jonquil!" she cried.

"I don't care if I look like a rose in April, so long as I get out of here alive."

Ashamed to say farewell to Bertaut in such a state, he lowered his eyes. But Bertaut ruffled his hair and searched his face. Phoebus grabbed Bertaut's powerful hand in his own, which was beginning to show signs of burgeoning strength. He had never gripped anything so hard without even trying. He said nothing, knowing that Bertaut would rescue him from the awkwardness of making the final speech. He wished his flair for the comedic extended to drama and tragedy as well.

"You've shown the faithfulness and judgment of a man twice your age, Phoebus. I look forward to seeing the man you become. But even if I'm not there to see for myself, I'm sure I'll hear the reports. You're a true soldier of the King and a true Christian. My prayers go with you."

Phoebus knelt and kissed Bertaut's signet ring. He wasn't sure if subordinates were supposed to treat a captain like a liege lord, but it seemed like the right thing to do. If it wasn't, he knew Bertaut would understand. Hiding his face from Drina, he accompanied her back to the festivities.

When it looked as though the bacchanal was going to last until dawn, he knew it was time to force things along.

"We need to make something happen, and soon," he whispered to Drina. Without responding, Drina began to retch and swoon and declare she would be seasick if they spent another minute offshore. None of her companions wanted anything to do with her, least of all take her home and miss the fun. So an ugly blonde Frenchwoman who had somehow gotten mixed up in their party offered to take Drina back to the gypsy camp. The blonde girl attracted a good deal of attention from the soldiers and sailors who wanted a better look at the pale pixie, who was no doubt one of those children the gypsies stole from good folk in exchange for one of their own. Phoebus pulled his hood further down over his eyes and folded in on himself as he imagined a bashful girl might. He managed to avoid the light from the candles and force his way with Drina to the hatch.

The cold night air no longer smelled of salt. Phoebus breathed deep the scent of fallow earth.

"You lovely lasses weren't thinking of walking all the way back home by your lonesome now, were you?" The deep, gravelly voice made Phoebus jump and grab Drina's hand like a damsel in distress. He prayed she would assume this was part of the act.

"We'll be fine," Drina said, "I'm feeling much better, really."

"In that case, come on back down and we'll have some fun! Or perhaps you had in mind something a bit more . . . private?"

Drina cried out in disgust and pulled Phoebus along. "Come on, Heloise. These vagabonds make our people look like saints."

"Now then, don't take it that way, my dear! Besides, I think your little friend can decide who she wants to spend the evening with, eh? Come along now, don't be shy. You haven't said a peep all night!" Phoebus ducked to avoid the hand, but not quickly enough. Cold air whipped around his ears as the hood was pulled away.

"Wha-why, I wouldn't have thought you had it in you, boy! Naughty, naughty! Thought you'd snag the prettiest for yourself, eh?" Phoebus searched desperately for a story-he had employed the gypsy as a spy for the English, to prove his loyalty-he had learned she was a spy for the French and was planning to milk her for information-he was-

Then came a thud like the sound of a sack of vegetables dropping to the ground. The sailor fell to the deck. Where he had stood, Drina was still brandishing a metal pulley and rope.

"Can't blame you for losing your temper," Phoebus said with a grin. "I'd do the same if someone made those kind of insinuations about me." He didn't think to replace his hood before a group of soldiers emerged from the hold. Once they saw the body on the deck, they raised their slurred voices and stumbled toward Phoebus and Drina. It was impossible to tell whether the men were chasing them out of anger, in jest, or simply charging as a mindless herd, but Phoebus didn't care to find out. He searched for the plank, but the deck was too dark to see.

"Can you swim?" he asked Drina, leaning over the rail.

"Can you keep me afloat?"

Phoebus felt the cold first in his extremities, then in the center of his bones and the core of his brain. A strange detachment came over him as he pulled on Drina's limp wrists and heaved her up over the waves, and he wondered if this was what it felt like to be enchanted. He kicked off his heavy shoes and wished Drina had thought to remove hers. Small splashes like heavy drops of rain began to hit the surface of the river. He prayed these were simply odds and ends thrown by the drunken soldiers, and not the arrows he feared. He took another gasping breath and marveled that his chest didn't hurt. He didn't know this was a bad sign.


	17. De Agri Cultura

Author's Note: In which we say farewell to one of our canon characters. If it were up to me, we wouldn't lose anyone, but the plot of the film necessitates it. Some may be happy, and nothing I can say will change that. Haters gonna hate.

The title is Latin for "On Agriculture," a treatise by Cato the Elder. The Romans emphasized the virtues of farming and the deep connection between religious devotion and tending the land.

Musical Recommendation: "I Vow to Thee My Country," performed by Libera. "I Vow" is a lovely tune set to the melody from "Jupiter" in Holst's "Planets." Libera offers a combination of boys' choir and atmospheric New Age music, which works better than you'd think.

* * *

Phoebus bobbed up and down between two similar worlds, both equally dark and cold. The only difference between them was that one happened to be unbreathable. At times he spent so long in the unbreathable world that he could no longer control his lungs and sucked in the dank river water. He remembered hearing one of the French sailors say that a man lost at sea should let the water enter him all at once, to shorten his suffering. But this was a river, and at some point soon they had to reach the shore. If only he could be sure that he was swimming across the river and not down it; the far bank had not seemed so far from the deck of the ship.

Something with bony, desperate claws was clinging to him, weighing him down. He panicked. His steady strokes turned to thrashing. Only Drina's frightened cries reminded him that he was carrying the gypsy girl. The more he tried to rally his senses, the more the world seemed to shrink until there was only he alone. He gave up holding Drina above the water and focused all his strength on keeping himself afloat as her buoy. His legs could no longer kick as fast, and his arms felt as though someone had snapped the muscles and left them limp. His feet were already settling into the weeds of the riverbed.

The weeds were so thick, they seemed to keep him afloat. Then they pushed against him, though he couldn't tell which direction he was moving. He remained unsure, until his head broke the surface and the sweetness of the night air rushed into his chest, opening new spaces he had never felt in his life.

Then he dreamed he was a fish, hauled limp and gasping onto the land. He was slapped around, propped up, and moved down a bumpy road, while men murmured to each other in the darkness a language that sounded like French, but none of the words made sense. As Phoebus lay almost motionless, he stretched out his hand in search of Drina, and grabbed the sodden hem of a skirt. The rest of his body relaxed, but his fist held on tight.

He awoke in a bed of damp-smelling straw that pricked his bare skin. A leak of candlelight under the door provided the only illumination. Drina sat propped against a wall, her knees drawn up and her head to one side. Phoebus sensed from her contemplative stare that she had been watching him for a long time. Her wild, curly black hair hung loose, draped over her arms, still damp.

"They're talking about us in there," she said. Phoebus crawled to the door and pressed his ear against the wood. Someone with a powerful, deep voice was trying to talk softly. He could make out something about the ship, the English, and warning Paris. Other voices joined in debate.

"We can get out through the chimney," Drina said. "I've been waiting for you to wake up. I didn't want to disturb you. I thought you might be hurt."

"Oh, me? I'll be fine. It always takes a day for those swimming cramps to settle in." Phoebus stretched his arms to demonstrate, and winced at the pain. Drina lay her hand on his shoulder. He had often felt the same gesture from Bertaut. It felt strange coming from a girl. "Anyway, we don't need to make a run for it just yet. These men are on our side. We just have to show them we're on their side, too."

Drina's hand slipped off his shoulder. "_You're _on their side."

"Come on, now. Just because you're a gypsy-you're still French, too. You speak our language, live in our country. And you rescued me. I won't let them push you around."

"Phoebus." He had introduced himself on the ship, but this was the first time she had spoken his name. Her accent gave the word a new flourish. "Even if you could convince those men I'm not a traitor, they still wouldn't treat me kindly."

Phoebus thought of Bertaut and ran his fingers through his hair, pressing his skull. "Well, I can't leave here without telling them what I know. Our men still think the English are going to Calais. And they think my captain is a traitor."

Drina sat on her heels and splayed her hands out on the floor. The emptiness in her face upset Phoebus, until he realized that she was silently communing with him, showing him that she did not pass judgment.

An exclamation from the other room brought them back to the present. "If you'll wait for me at the camp," Phoebus said, "I'll follow you as soon as I can. I mean, to make sure you got back alright."

Drina smiled halfheartedly. "I guess you haven't heard how gypsy fathers treat outsiders who follow their girls around."

"Well, they might cut me a little slack, seeing as how I rescued you."

"After _I_ rescued _you_." She knocked against him with a grin. "But I know how it is. You have to get back to Paris, to help your friend. You can't dawdle around here. And neither can I." She stepped into the fireplace and raised her head to gaze into the deeper blackness. Phoebus asked himself he so desperately needed to follow this girl he had not known for even a day.

"Hey," he said. She stared straight at him, the way no modest noblewoman would have dared. "Say hello, if you're ever in Paris." She smiled like a young child, with innocent delight and no trace of irony.

When the sound of her scuffling in the dark had ceased, Phoebus could only imagine to himself the tender compliments and promises that he would have felt too silly to speak aloud.

* * *

When Matins rang in the distant village, Captain Malbert returned from his interrogation with a smile creeping along the corners of his mouth. Loup stretched his turkey neck and raised his bulbous head from the tankard. Foulques, the youngest of the Four Horsemen, stood to attention. He was always aware of his tenuous position and looking for a way to distinguish himself. "Can we trust this boy?" he asked, "after he helps a gypsy escape?"

"And if he too is guilty," Malbert replied, "why would he stay behind? It might be a ruse, but the boy seems honest. We'll leave a contingent behind to keep an eye on the ships, but I'm satisfied. Everything is just as I told you. More ships are on the way. None of them went to Calais."

"And the girl?"

"If Vilain finds her, all the better. We'll have someone to corroborate the boy's intelligence. If not, that's just one more gypsy rodent scurrying about the countryside. Better here than Paris."

The old woman clucked her tongue in the corner. She was the only occupant of the cottage, and Frollo's men had been calling her a witch ever since they barged in and demanded quarters for the night.

"A sympathizer, eh?" Malbert sneered. "I'd expect no less from an old hag." He turned his back to her. "The only question now is what to do with the boy."

"Take him along, I suppose," Loup said. "He says he's a soldier. Let him ride with us. Then we'll see what kind of horsemanship he can boast." He showed a set of narrow teeth like the crooked stones in a pagan monument.

"And let him take the credit for our discovery? Besides, the boy's loyal to his captain. He'll kick up a fuss if he hears the Minister means to prosecute."

"You want to get him out of the way?"

Malbert rubbed his beard with the back of his hand. "Yes, but not like that. He's got real promise-loyalty, courage. The front lines would keep him out of trouble for as long as we need. Maybe longer, if he proves more courageous than battle-hardened."

* * *

In all the months of fear and indignity, Phoebus had never come this close to despair. For the first time, he thought he could glimpse what Bertaut had felt at their capture. Now he was the one humiliated and cast out alone. The men who had rescued him, the ones he had relayed all his intelligence to, were treating him less like a hero than a prisoner. True, they had tried to mollify him. They had promised him a promotion for his loyal service, and trusted him enough to send him back to the field. But they were sending him to the field, not to Paris, and they were sending him under guard. They claimed it was a reward for his service, that he could distinguish himself on the front lines, and that he had discharged his duty to his captain. It was all a cover, because they didn't trust him, and they wanted the glory that should have been his. He glanced at his "escort," the three mounted soldiers who kept behind and on either side of his horse. They avoided looking at him, but he could see the tension in their limbs, their readiness to spring if he tried to escape.

The cold morning mist settled into his clothes. The sun flashed through the bare trees and turned the dry dead grass to gold, like the straw that Rumpelstiltskin spun. It was the first morning on land he had seen since the summer, the kind of morning that used to make him shiver with excitement for things he couldn't name. The memory only sharpened his disappointment. He looked out over the fallow black fields. They would lie empty until spring, abandoned by even the crows. It was all he wanted to look at now.

He thought of spring days as a young boy, jumping up on the stiles and sitting wherever the wood wasn't rotted or damp, and watching the peasants plough and sow. In those days, a morning like this on the road, headed for battle, would have filled him with joy. Now he felt like a criminal headed for the gallows.

And it was his countrymen who had condemned him. He was going to fight, but not for them. He remembered Bertaut's dark mood, how his loyalty and pride had almost led him to commit the unpardonable sin.

Phoebus would be loyal, but not to them. He would survive, but not to serve his country. He would prove himself, and then return in triumph to his captain and only friend. And he would be to others-to people like Drina-what Bertaut had been to him.

A flock of indigo swallows with forked tails swept over the fields. They were joined by finches that searched in vain for their morning meal. In the spring, the sown field would be their banquet.


	18. Fishers of Men

Author's Note: In which we learn where those darn gargoyles really came from.

Musical Recommendation: "Melody of You" by Sixpence None the Richer and "Spooky" by the Classics IV, cover by Imogen Heap (with lyrics from a girl's point of view). Each song goes with a different character. Bet you can't guess which goes with which. . . .

* * *

The dark, stuffy carriage ride was a nightmare of suspense. Margaret prayed Frollo would continue to ignore her and not ask what she had brought in the burlap sack. When they reached Notre Dame, she tumbled out of the carriage before him and scrambled inside. In the dim blue expanse, she found the Archdeacon before the Virgin, trimming the wicks on the votives. She had thought such tasks were performed by menials.

"My daughter," he said, "what have you brought this time?"

Margaret heaved the book onto a ledge and opened the cover to show him the illuminated text. Griffons and dragons entwined themselves in exotic vines and branches, and unicorns hid in the depths of impossibly green glades. "It's a bestiary. I found it in the Palace. Can you believe it? I'll bet Frollo's never cracked the spine. I thought Quasimodo might enjoy it."

A deep, scornful voice made her jump. "A bestiary? For Quasimodo? How appropriate." Margaret slammed the book shut and stepped into the Virgin's shadow. Since she had lost her own books, and since Lady Agnes had been seen less and less outside her chambers, Margaret had felt a growing sense that she was forever exposed to Frollo's critical eye and acrid tongue. She tried to forgive him his harshness, knowing the shadows he labored in, but this did little to ease her discomfort.

The Archdeacon interposed himself. "Minister Frollo-it's some time since you graced us with your presence."

"One of the chief inconveniences of my office, this never-ending toil. One day I shall perhaps be free to come more often and enjoy the contemplative life in Our Lord's house."

"I'm sure we all await that day with great anticipation." Margaret thought she heard the Archdeacon mutter something about "Judgment Day."

"Indeed. Meanwhile, Paris needs men of action as much as she needs men of the Church. Mercy and justice, the New and Old Testament. . . ."

Sensing that the conversation was taking a theological turn, Margaret tiptoed away across the checkered floor.

In the belltower, Denis gave her his usual reception, cold and dry as pinot gris in winter. He perched on the workman's table and whittled a tiny figurine while Margaret introduced Quasimodo to the "beautiful monsters" in her book. She produced two crumpled sheets of paper, purloined from Frollo's library, and opened a bottle of ink. Before she could introduce Quasimodo to the quill pen, he had snatched it from her hands and was drawing long swirls with blotches that turned the swirls into vines dotted with fantastic flowers. Margaret picked out one of the book illustrations to copy, but the results were disappointing, and she abandoned her efforts to sketch a trio of weather beaten castoff gargoyles.

Quasimodo left off his own experiment to watch, and Denis crept around for a look. "I like that," was all he said. Margaret blushed, painfully aware that he was only being polite. "Make them do something."

"What should they do?"

"Fishy in the river," Quasimodo said. It was the first complete sentence she had heard him speak.

"You want me to draw a fish?"

"He wants you to draw them fishing. I fish a lot. Catch half our Friday meals around here. Makes sense when you live on an island."

"We're on an island? I've never been on an island before!"

Denis stared at her, his thick lips pouting with concentration. "You're not very observant."

Margaret wondered why a common boy should make her face sting with embarrassment. "I just didn't notice." She doodled a sequence of rude, uneven sketches that depicted the gang of three struggling to heave a giant fish out of the Seine. The story ended with the three bobbing in the inky river. Quasimodo burbled in approval. Denis stared at the picture, turned his head to appraise it, and then exploded in a laugh so sudden and strange that Margaret felt an urge to crawl under the table.

"It's not very good," she said.

"Yeah."

Margaret thought this was a bit harsh; she hadn't expected him to agree. "I mean, I can make the lines smooth, but it doesn't come out right in the end."

"You don't understand proportion." He sat down Turkish style and began explaining how to measure distances by holding a rod at arm's length, sliding a thumb along the rod, and counting how many units made up an object. "That helps you see things as they really are, not how you think they ought to be."

"How did you learn that? Are you an artist?"

Denis stood up and massaged his back. "I was apprenticed to an architect." Quasimodo took Margaret's picture in his fist and toddled off, still staring enraptured at the scenes.

"Really? Then it must be thrilling for you to live in a place like this."

"I live here because I couldn't make journeyman. The guild was against me."

"What do you mean?"

Denis glanced at his dark hands. "They didn't care for my skin. Said I had heathen blood in me. Which is likely enough to be true." He looked down at Margaret, and his sharp face with the long Roman nose and deep-set eyes softened like wax in the sun. "But I do like to study the cathedral. I do enjoy that. Sometimes I work on the castoff statutes, fix them up for practice. . . ." His gaze broke away and wandered over the rafters. "I guess no one's really in charge of their fate. I mean, you're betrothed to . . . to a. . . ."

"You mean the Minister?" Margaret twisted her ruby pendant. "I'm not really betrothed, formally. I mean, that's how I understand it. I'm not quite sure."

"You don't know if you're going to marry him? Didn't your parents arrange everything? I thought that's how they did things in your circles."

"I don't know what you mean by my circles, but we were in the process of-there was an-interruption of sorts." Denis looked straight at her, and she glanced away, as though his stare had impacted hers and knocked it aside.

"So you got out of marrying him? Close call! I guess fortune works both ways."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing, I just . . . I mean . . . have you seen Quasimodo?"

The belltower was silent but for the cooing of the pigeons. Margaret began looking in the obvious places, behind beams and statutes. Then she realized that Denis was the one looking properly: up inside the giant bells and along the rafters. They raced to the roof, their feet making the boards rumble. Denis ran to the parapet and turned around to look up at the spires. Quasimodo clung to an ornament no thicker than Margaret's wrist. His tentative hand reached for a piece of paper the wind had lodged in a crack just out of reach. Margaret rammed her fingers into her mouth and moaned. Denis gripped her arm.

"Just keep quiet. Frollo can't find out about this. He's perfectly safe. Just don't distract him."

"I'll keep quiet, but only if you climb up at once and bring him down. If he can get up that high, we surely can reach him."

"He's had a little more practice than you and me."

Margaret glared at Denis, kicked off her slippers, and began searching for a foothold. Denis watched with detachment, clearly not concerned she would make enough headway to endanger herself. Voices echoed inside the cathedral.

"Get down," Denis whispered, but it was too late. Frollo and the Archdeacon emerged, and the retribution began. Margaret blocked her senses to focus on her climb while Frollo, oblivious to her, harangued Denis. But she could not block out everything.

"It's just as I told you," Frollo's voice boomed. "The creature is possessed. I refuse to control it any longer. Let it have free reign, and take a tumble for all I care. No doubt that's what the devils controlling it had in mind from the beginning."

Margaret looked up at the "creature," who had caught his prize and was once again admiring the picture as he perched on the gargoyle's head like a boy on a fence. He beamed down at her, and the wind ruffled his soft ginger hair. The distant faces of the stone angels seemed harsh and ugly in comparison.

She stretched out her hand. "Please come down, dear."

"Margaret, you little fool!" Frollo's bellowing was no less sharp and cruel from a distance. Margaret trembled and realized that her palms and the soles of her feet were slick with sweat. She looked down at the trio of shocked faces. All at once, they began to grow larger. Her body was sliding against the stones, and the rough surface burned her grasping hands.

A ripping pain tore at the tendons of her wrist. She was hanging limp like a rat on a rat-catcher's pole. Above her head, Quasimodo squatted on the roof, his hand around her wrist, his mismatched green eyes wide with concern. With her free hand, she grabbed an outcropping, while her bare feet kicked and slid against the wall in search of a crevice. She could hear Denis' voice growing louder, closer beneath her. A thin but strong arm wrapped around her waist. Quasimodo kept hold of her hand as the three moved, a single unit, guided by Denis, who called out the location of each foothold. The wind lashed Margaret's hair and dress, and the warmth of human touch turned her fear to exhilaration. She got up the courage to turn her head and take in the view. Tall grey heaps of cloud filled the sky, and the pale fire of distant lightning flashed in their depths. For one moment, she could have asked the others to climb back up with her to the very tip of the highest spire, and if lightning struck and coursed through her veins, she would die in bliss.

She only realized how ridiculous these thoughts were when she was back on the level roof and Frollo was coming towards her, cooing in a syrupy tone she did not recognize at all. She took a step back from his looming figure, which seemed to descend like one of the black clouds moving in on the city.

"Poor little chick, how could I turn my back on you? To think we almost saw you destroyed before our eyes, and all because of that wretched, careless-"

He stopped when Denis wrapped his arm around Margaret's shoulder. Margaret hardly noticed that Frollo had fallen silent. She picked Quasimodo up in her arms and pressed his body, so full of delightfully new bulges and angles, close to her chest.

Frollo appeared to regroup and switch tactics. "As for you, boy, I gave you your chance, and you've once again proved to me your absolute incompetence."

Now Margaret was paying attention. "It won't happen again. It's my fault. I was distracting him."

Frollo craned his neck back and looked down at her, as if trying to get even more distance from which to scrutinize. "Distracting? Aaah. . . . Indeed." As he peered at her, Margaret felt something like an aftershock of the strange exhilaration that had come upon her during the climb. Suspicious of the feeling, she squeezed Quasimodo tighter.

"Minister Frollo," the Archdeacon said, "This is hardly the best time to discuss Quasimodo's care. We'll sort this out later. Let them rest a moment."

Frollo wrinkled his long nose, then bowed his head in deference. As he followed the Archdeacon back inside, he kept his eyes on the trio. Margaret dared to search his face for any vestige of the gentleness that had flashed only moments ago. But it had vanished like sugar dissolved in a bitter tincture. She placed her hand on the back of Quasimodo's head and lobbed Frollo's disdainful glare straight back. The air was even colder at that height, but she could feel the heat from Denis' exhausted body close at her shoulder.


	19. The Dog in the Manger

Author's Note: "Thus aged lovers with young beautys live,/ Keepe off the joys they want the power to give." -Aphra Behn

Apparently the French say "_faire le chien du jardinier_" or playing the gardener's dog, which alludes to a French variation of the dog in the manger tale.

Also, Frollo's reaction at the end of the last chapter was meant to be out-of-the-blue, but based on some feedback I've made it slightly less oblique. I sensed that Frollo's scream was coming off as actual fear for Margaret, when he's just blowing off steam. This chapter should clarify the rest.

Musical Recommendation: "Adam Lay Ibounden" performed by the Mediaeval Baebes and, if you can find it, "Machine Ballerina" by Suzanne Vega ("Am I a toy on a tray/Soft piece of clay/Queen or clown for the day?")

* * *

As afternoon descended to evening, the stained glass of Notre Dame blazed even brighter in contrast to the dimness of the sanctuary. Frollo and the Archdeacon paced the polished floor as Denis gave Margaret the grand tour, clearly delighted at the opportunity to show off his knowledge of the architecture and statuary. The Archdeacon had never seen the boy so voluble.

"And then there's the treasury, which, with the Archdeacon's permission, I can show you before you leave. The countryside is full of smaller churches that claim to have this and that, but of course, out in the country, you never know what you're getting. We have the real Crown of Thorns in one of our reliquaries."

"Can you really see it whenever you like?"

"Well, I've seen it quite a few times," Denis stammered, "but they keep me pretty busy, you know. I don't have time to just worship all day long, even if it is my home."

The Archdeacon made numerous efforts to get closer to the pair-the one quiet, self-assured, if a little sullen; the other meek, overawed and reverent. But every time he took a few steps in their direction, Frollo cut him off and introduced a new topic for discussion.

"I've been thinking," Frollo began again, "perhaps we ought to put Quasimodo's acrobatic skills to some use? For instance, he could much more efficiently clean the windows than any of the workmen, and I believe-"

"Minister Frollo," the Archdeacon interposed, "is there something else you wished to discuss with me?"

Frollo made a steeple with his fingers. "If Your Grace would like to continue our discussion from the belltower. . . ."

The Archdeacon sighed and nodded.

"Very well. I think what you have just witnessed is proof enough that Quasimodo runs wild under that boy's care. And now it's not only the child itself that is endangered, but Mademoiselle Bertaut. You are no doubt aware of my mother's precarious condition."

"We pray for her each day."

"For which we are eternally indebted to you. But you doubtless also understand that Mademoiselle Bertaut is a particular favorite of my mother's. Dear heaven, if anything should happen to the poor girl on my watch. . . ." Frollo massaged his brow and shook his head.

The Archdeacon turned away, sickened by the obvious ruse. "Perhaps Your Honor should consider a more appropriate home for Quasimodo, then."

"Notre Dame has been an excellent home for the boy; I see no reason to upset him, tearing him away after all this time. No, I had something else in mind." He turned to watch Denis and Margaret, a dark figure in drab and a pale figure in bright blues and purples. Denis' voice was too soft and deep to carry across the sanctuary, but Margaret's shrill, irritating exclamations, like the piping of a small bird, were quite audible. "You see, short of a miraculous intervention, my mother will soon pass from this world. And then I shall have a young unmarried woman on my hands."

"Has she no family?"

"None to which I would entrust her. But she seems to have taken a fancy to Quasimodo, would you not agree?"

The Archdeacon would have responded enthusiastically, were he not suspicious of where all this was leading.

"What I say is, why not allow Mademoiselle to care for Quasimodo? At least for as long as he requires constant supervision."

The Archdeacon frowned. He had sensed a rift between Margaret and Frollo which seemed equal to the growing attachment between the girl and Denis. Coming from anyone else, the plan would have sounded ideal. Coming from Frollo, such a plan had to be examined from all sides. Unfortunately, he knew there was little hope of seeing through Frollo's machinations without having all the hidden pieces at his disposal. "Do you suggest she live in the belltower?"

"Why ever not? Master Denis could stay in a cell here below. You surely have some little space he might occupy. He need only scale the tower to ring the bells. He's a hearty lad, he can manage the climb. And I know I could trust you to ensure he does not grow too familiar with the young Mademoiselle." The Archdeacon could not tell if Frollo's eyelid were twitching spasmodically or if he were actually winking.

"But considering Mademoiselle Bertaut's station, would she wish to-"

"Dear me, did I neglect to mention the chief advantage of the arrangement? Why, Mademoiselle Bertaut is very interested in taking holy vows. I cannot believe I did not mention this to you previously."

"Does she indeed? No . . . I don't believe you spoke of it. Nor did Mademoiselle Bertaut."

Frollo's mouth twisted in what he must have conceived as a pious and beatific smile. "Oh yes. Mother and I were delighted to learn of her intent. Such a simple, unspotted creature was never made for matrimony, you know."

* * *

How pleasant it was to have some peace from that girl, Frollo thought as the carriage jostled down the cobbled street. His only wish was that he might know what she was thinking. Her face had taken on an unfamiliar, contemplative cast. She sat squeezed in the opposite corner, her forehead leaning against the side of the carriage. She did not even seem to notice when they hit a bump and her head knocked against the wall.

He was overcome with a need to probe and pry, to bait her. He knew he should resist; at the first sign of attention from him, she would resume fawning. But she had been distant all day, and though he did not like to admit it, he was developing an addiction to provoking the girl. At times he feared it was becoming a venal sin, but usually he excused it as his way of making the girl more vigilant about her own conscience.

"You enjoy our visits to the cathedral, do you not?"

Margaret took a long time to respond. Instead of jumping to attention, she remained slack, smiling at the floor. "It's wonderful."

"Even when you almost break your neck, I suppose."

"I wasn't that high up."

"I'll have none of your impudence. By rights I should never let you in the towers again."

This seemed to have some greater effect. Margaret squeezed herself farther into the corner.

"However, far be it from me to discourage you in your religious devotions." He leaned forward. All things considered, she had been less bothersome that day. He could afford to stroke her a little. "I was very pleased to note your interest in the Church." It was perhaps the first real compliment he had given her, and he looked forward to her reaction. He searched the shadows for the bashful smile and blush it was sure to evoke. Instead, she frowned, almost as though she were irritated. Frollo felt like a man who had tossed a coin at a beggar girl singing on the street corner, only to be greeted with sullen silence. He pressed on. "It is fortunate that you should find the religious life so attractive. I have often thought you were particularly suited to it."

Margaret slowly sat up, blinking. "What?"

"Of course, you lack a certain amount of discipline, but I have seen far more hopeless cases."

Margaret folded her arms defensively. "I had always assumed I'd be a married woman."

"Naturally. I don't suppose your family ever encouraged you in another direction. Quite often parents are an obstruction to their children's religious ambitions." He thought of how his own parents had redirected his childhood dream of becoming a priest, of how his father had once raged upon finding his tiny son in the bedroom, conducting a pretend Mass complete with nonsense Latin. "With my recommendation, you could go far, perhaps even become an abbess."

"I don't think I'm suited for leadership."

"Margaret, must you be so perverse? Is there something troubling you?"

Margaret squinted sidelong at him, like a rabbit watching a distant cat that might or might not pounce.

"I do hope your interest in the cathedral was sincere, and not prompted by some less noble sentiment."

Her response was even more impudent and brusque. Frollo had to fight the temptation to strike her as he composed his features into a mask of shock and pain. "I do wish you would not respond to me in that manner, my dear. I only meant to point out that you seemed rather close with young Master Denis today, and on our previous visits. You must be wary of such low-born young men. A sheltered girl such as yourself could easily mistake his overtures for innocent pleasantry." Margaret's already full lip became fuller. She was pouting. Frollo was overcome by a need to mold her physically, to force her into submission. He grabbed her round face and smashed the cheeks between his bony hands. "I've had quite enough of your evasions, Mademoiselle. I have indulged your childish weakness, but I will stand by no longer. I have seen where such indulgence leads. I saw where it led my brother. I will not suffer the same to happen to you, do you understand? That boy is a danger to you, and unless I have your promise never to address him again, you shall not go near Quasimodo. Do I make myself clear?"

Margaret clawed at his hands but could not peel them off. He could see in her eyes that he had still not gained the advantage. He growled and pushed his forehead against hers. "Oh Margaret, whatever shall I do to protect you from yourself, you willful, wicked girl?" he cajoled. Even though he held her tight, he could feel her escaping him. It took all his willpower to keep from dashing her to the floor. Violence would not avail him; he had to regain her allegiance. It was driving him mad to think of such a snub-nosed, stubborn creature rejecting him for a common boy off the street. Her indifference was proving even more maddening than her affection. He wanted neither-he wanted obedience.

In the silence, he could feel her hands relax and drop away from his own. Her eyes took on a drowsy, mournful look that shifted between contentment and misery. It made him almost giddy with triumph. He stroked her hair, pulled back, and patted her cheek. "There," he said, his voice barely more than a contented sigh. "No need to seek forgiveness. I quite understand. You've been under a great deal of strain, what with my mother's illness. We shall not speak of this again. Only see to it that you follow my instructions."

The carriage stopped and Margaret fled his presence. He removed his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. Perhaps it was all for naught, perhaps he was exaggerating the danger. But he had to be sure. Before he could place the girl in a religious order, he had to test her character. Through this new scheme, he would rid himself of her constant presence, while keeping her under his supervision. More than that, he would learn the strength of her purity-or force her to purify herself. God Himself placed Adam and Eve in a place of temptation, and though evil came of it, was there not good as well?


	20. The Harlequin's Tale

Author's Note: Clopin's tale adapted from "The Merchant's Tale," part of the _Canterbury Tales_. A warning to my younger readers: the original tale is not age-appropriate. Even Clopin has to sanitize his stories a little. Ingredients for the feast foods are included in the footnote section, if you're curious.

Musical Recommendation: "The Dancing Bear" by Natalie Merchant and the ever-popular "Masquerade Waltz" by Khachaturian. The Western ear interprets the minor key of the Waltz as a bit threatening or "off," which is appropriate here, if unintended by the composer.

* * *

The old greyhound formerly known as Cyril lay curled like a cat in front of Margaret's fireplace. Margaret had won his allegiance by feeding him table scraps and nicknaming him "Jambesfolles,"* to which he now answered exclusively. His hunting days were past, and with Margaret's spoiling, he was quickly becoming a bon vivant.

Margaret stood as close to the fire as she could without risking a soot stain on her new gown while the maid laced up the back. Looking at herself in the mirror, Margaret was stung with guilt. Lady Agnes had commissioned the gown for her to wear to the banquet that night, and now Lady Agnes was too unwell to attend herself. Margaret had made a good faith effort to have the whole affair called off, but she couldn't help being excited now that the day had come. She only wished that the severe, silent maid would not pull her laces so tightly.

Collette always left her gowns loose, knowing that she cared more for breathing space than a fashionable figure. That was another reason for guilt-she had been so busy with preparations, she had not made her daily inquiry of the guard. Every day for the past month, she would personally ask for news of Collette. As yet, none of the search parties in Paris or the surrounding countryside had uncovered the slightest evidence of her whereabouts. Margaret could only pray that she was lying low in distrust of Frollo. She suppressed the other possibility-that Collette, too, had met with trouble on the road to Paris. She rubbed Jambesfolles' sleek head and warned herself not to sink into another fit of despondency. At times she felt as though a part of her continually sought ways to torment her conscience. It was as if a part of Frollo had taken up permanent residence in her mind.

Jambesfolles trotted after her as she searched the dark passages for Frollo. She didn't like the idea of entering the banquet hall by herself. She also secretly wanted him to see her gown. She couldn't explain it to herself, but she still anticipated seeing him, even though the actual meetings were rarely pleasant. Certainly not half as pleasant as afternoons with Denis in Notre Dame.

"My dear girl, what in heaven's name are you wearing?" Frollo stopped short in the hall and surveyed her from head to toe.

"It's the gown Lady Agnes ordered for me to wear tonight."

"I thought as much. Well, as she's the only one expecting you to wear it, it won't be any trouble at all for you to change."

"What do you mean? What's wrong with it?"

Frollo waved his hand in the air as though tossing about his myriad objections "Even you must admit it's dreadfully overdone. All those colors, no harmony or measure anywhere. It makes you look like a maypole. Not to mention the . . . less than modest neckline."

"I don't have anything else."

"But of course you do. Didn't you see the dress I gave you?"

"I didn't see any new dresses, except for a plain brown one."

"Margaret! The fabric was very fine, very costly. I'm shocked you didn't even notice."

"Perhaps I didn't get a good look at it," Margaret muttered. "It was tucked away in the wardrobe."

"Indeed." Frollo noticed the greyhound. "Why, Cyril, there you are, old boy. Poor old fellow, I haven't seen you in an age."

Jambesfolles crouched behind Margaret's knees, but as Frollo coaxed him, he began to slink forward, tail still between his legs, watery black eyes making him look like a weepy child. Abandoned by her last friend and support, Margaret returned to her room. She didn't like the thought of quarreling over her costume.

Jambesfolles was still at Frollo's side when she returned. Her eyes stung, until she wished she could slap herself for being so silly. Did she really want to shed tears over a drab dress?

"There," Frollo said, placing his palms together in a silent clap. "Simple, modest elegance. That is an excellent color on you-it matches your eyes."

* * *

Margaret took Lady Agnes' customary seat beside Frollo. They were flanked on either side by two of Frollo's officers. On Margaret's side sat a Malbert, with oily black hair and a barrel chest, and a pinched old man named Loup. They smiled at each other when she was introduced and showed an unsettling fascination with everything she had to say. By saying very little themselves, they made her prattle nervously about her life in the countryside and all the changes she had grown accustomed to in Paris.

"I'm not as enamored of city life as I thought I might be," she explained, "but I might prefer wintering in the city. The cold is more bearable when people can visit each other. But I don't know what I'll do when spring comes. I already miss the green and the flowers."

"No doubt you'll be back in the countryside with the whole clan by that time," Malbert said, his cheek propped on his fist and his heavy, bearded jaw slung to one side in a crooked smile.

Margaret looked down the table at the nobles who had come, at the tall women in taller headdresses practicing their courtly graces on the young men. The group was much too far for her to converse with in the echoing hall. Frollo carved the main course, explaining to the man at his opposite shoulder,

"Mother suggested something absurd like peacock. I insisted that goose would be much more appropriate." Margaret could have sworn he glanced at her. She did not feel as hungry as she had expected to be, especially as she had starved herself all day in anticipation. She forced down a few bites of parsnip pie and a sip of hypocras. The sweetness soothed her upset stomach and roused her appetite. She blocked out the strange sounds and faces and began to enjoy the feast in her own private world of blancmanger and apple muse.

"Remember Margaret," Frollo muttered, "even on banquet nights, gluttony is still a sin. Besides, I don't want you outgrowing that gown in one night."

They stared at each other. In silent protest, Margaret spooned up a mountain of rice and chicken, which she slid sensuously into her mouth.

"Monsiuers et Madames!" cried a voice so familiar, Margaret jumped out of her seat and struck her knee on the table. She looked at Frollo to see if he shared her recognition, but all she could read in his face was long-suffering annoyance.

"Another of my mother's extravagances." He leaned past Margaret to murmur in Malbert's ear. "Keep your men posted at every entrance. Some of them are bound to be gypsies, and this is the worst possible night for them to come slinking around the Palace."

A lanky harlequin figure in purple, yellow, and blue came bounding, cartwheeling, and backflipping into the hall, followed by a raucous musical entourage. "We crave your indulgence, my lords and ladies, for this night's entertainment!" Margaret searched the strange masked faces for another she might recognize. Except for Clopin, all the figures showed pale wrists past their gloves and pale chins under their masks. Instead of Esmeralda, Clopin was accompanied by a woman in a matching gown with an explosion of hair the color of a ripe persimmon.

"Look," Margaret exclaimed. She had forgotten there was no one she particularly wished to share her emotions with. "I'll bet it's a mummer's play. There's the soldiers, and there's someone in a bearskin-" She caught herself short and sunk into the chair when she realized that the bearskin was still very much attached to a bear on a lead with bells on his neck. "Is that safe?"

"Of course it isn't," Frollo sneered. Jambesfolles crouched behind Margaret's chair and whimpered.

The performers began to erect a makeshift stage and curtain from boxes, poles, and a blue cloth with celestial symbols woven in gold thread that glittered in the torchlight. The curtain rose on a silent tableaux: three masked figures dressed as a young girl (Clopin's red-headed assistant), a young boy, and a grey-headed man with a cane. Clopin and a crew of musicians beat the tabor and warbled a foreign-sounding pipe tune. The figures on stage moved without speaking and gestured histrionically until the entire hall was roaring and clapping, except for Frollo. For once, Margaret could hardly blame him.

The dumbshow depicted the old man wooing the young girl and taking her to the altar. Soon after, the young man appeared and pressed the girl even more ardently, and the two concocted a plan behind the master's rose bushes. The old man, short-sighted and led by his younger wife, stopped to rest by a pear tree made of beams nailed together and decorated with fabric leaves. High in the branches, the cocky boy waited with glee while the wife pantomimed, with much fainting and rubbing of her stomach, how desperately she needed a bite of fruit from the tree. Eager to oblige, the old man stooped to let her climb on his back into the tree, where the boy and his mistress exchanged kisses and waved to the audience. Margaret rubbed one cheek, as though this might put out the fire under her skin. Just before the curtain fell, the girl spoke her only line,

"Oh, la la!"

For the second time, Margaret was overpowered by a memory, this time in a deeper place. She covered her mouth to keep herself from calling out Collette's name.

"If I find my mother approved this," Frollo said, "natural illness won't be the only thing threatening her life." Over the applause, Margaret could hear his teeth cracking together. She wondered, was he only angry, or had the spectacle wounded him in some place that she might soothe?

The revelers cleared away their stage and made room for the musicians and the dance. The bear they kept in a corner for the present, though they could not keep him from lumbering a few steps in time to the music. Margaret's chair was pulled out by a servant. To her surprise, Frollo stood up as well. Margaret had heard fairy tales about golems, stone men who were controlled by magicians. If such a creature could have achieved grace and elegance along with inhumanity and indifference, it would have made a good portrait of the Minister, who glided across the floor, head erect-which, thanks to his height, allowed him to dance the first pavane without looking at a single guest. He seemed as preoccupied as she was, and Margaret was sure that, had he not been complete master of each movement, that they would have collided into each other. The gentlemen's line danced past the women's, and on the next pass, Frollo had disappeared.

Margaret saw her chance, but before she too could escape the dance, she was grabbed by both wrists and pulled into a ronde that must have been popular in Paris, because she was the only one who did not know the words to the song. She mouthed nonsense syllables as the group turned in a circle. Each time they changed direction, her legs and feet tangled up with each other. She was normally a competent dancer, but all her attention was on Clopin and Collette, who watched from their dark corner. As soon as the circle broke, she slipped through the crowd.

"We must speak nothing here," Collette whispered. "Have you any privacy in this place?"

"Come to my room," Margaret said. "I can lock us in."

"We must not go all at once, _mes amis_," Clopin said. "There must be a distraction."

Margaret looked at the listless dancing bear and back at the table where Jambesfolles lay with his head between his paws. "How tame is your bear, and how does he feel about dogs?"

* * *

*Jambesfolle translates to "Crazy Legs." In honor of my little cousin, who suggested this name for his baby brother. It never quite caught on, but I always liked it.

Feast Dishes:

Parsnip Pie: Parsnip, figs, raisins, spices

Apple Muse: Apple, almond milk, honey, bread crumbs, sandalwood, saffron

Hypocras: Spiced wine with sugar

Blancmanger: Chicken and rice with a little sweetening. Yes, medievals-even high born medievals-actually ate chicken and rice casserole.


	21. Odi et Amo

Author's Note: The Latin title comes from the Catullus poem, "I Love and I Hate."

Musical Recommendation: "My Care is Like My Shadow" from the Mediaeval Baebes soundtrack to "The Virgin Queen": "I freeze and yet I always burn/Since from myself again I turn/I love and yet am forced to hate/I seem stone mute, inside I prate." From a poem attributed to Elizabeth I.

* * *

An impromptu bear bating erupted in the middle of the dance, and the guests fled behind the long banquet tables. Only after everyone was a safe distance away did they begin to see the humor in the yelping, aged greyhound harrying the mild, shaggy bear, who stood on his hind legs not as if to threaten his persecutor but to escape the annoyance. He cocked his head, groaned a plea to be left alone, and danced a few steps, as though this might placate the dog. A servant halfheartedly tugged at Jambesfolles' lead, while a masked trainer tried to nudge the bear from the middle of the floor. Both animals were so old and tired, there was little sense of urgency.

As the guests clapped and giggled, Margaret escaped, followed a few moments later by Clopin, then Collette, both now dressed in plainclothes that would not so easily give away their presence. The halls were better lit than usual for the banquet, and busier, with servants hurrying along the passages and down the stairs. Most were too preoccupied with the mock-fight in the great hall to bother with Margaret and her companions. Margaret, however, knew better than to risk any contact with soldiers, so they took the roundabout way to her bedroom.

In one movement, Margaret locked the door and hurled herself against Collette.

"_Pauvre amie_," Collette whispered.

"_Oui, oui_," Clopin said, "but let us save the tearful reunions for after our task is complete."

Margaret peeked out from under Collette's embracing arm and shot back. "I suppose you're here to kidnap me again."

"Perish the thought, _ma dame_," Clopin said. "It is still the globe, and not _ma dame _which is placed firmly at the center of the universe.* We have other reasons for our visit tonight."

Collette pulled away from Margaret's desperate grip. "_C'est vrai_, we come _faire d'une pierre deux coups_*. And we must hurry; Monsiuer Pinchface has already disappeared. Where is it he receives important guests?"

Margaret tried not to feel hurt that her best friend was so fixated on Frollo, when they had not even discussed how Collette came to Paris or where she had been. But there was no question she would help them. She knew from her time as the gypsies' captive how they were hunted by Frollo. Much of this they no doubt deserved, based on their treatment of her, but she knew also that retribution-however it was was carried out in the dungeons so many floors beneath their feet-fell on the innocent and the guilty alike. Whether Clopin would be classified as precisely innocent she did not presume to say, but here he was, stalwart at the side of her childhood friend.

"I can show you to his library," she said. "We'll take the servants' passage. There shouldn't be anyone in that part of the Palace tonight."

Clopin smiled. "Except for the Minister of Injustice and his favorite lackey."

The scuffling of servants and the clattering of plates gradually receded the deeper they burrowed into the heart of the Palace. Margaret knew portions of the servants' passages from long, dull afternoons spent exploring, but she had never taken the full route from her room to the library. Her sense of direction was nonexistent, and they had to risk detection time and again so she could crack open a door and orient herself in a familiar room. Clopin huffed and sighed in frustration, but it was Collette's nervous and doubtful silence that made Margaret the most uncomfortable.

She was vindicated at last by the sound of a deep, plummy voice that oozed like viscous treacle down the passage. A voyeuristic thrill overcame her. The three spies positioned themselves along the edges of the door, through which the candlelight of the library seeped into their darkness.

"A shame," said an unfamiliar voice that Margaret nevertheless thought she could place. A bushy jaw that seemed too heavy for the rest of the skull came to mind, and she remembered Monsieur Malbert from earlier that evening. "I would keep an eye on the boy. If he survives, he'll be useful to someone one of these days."

"Loyalty is always useful," Frollo said. "It is the chief virtue of a military man."

"Not as necessary, perhaps, for those who give the orders that military men obey."

Frollo chuckled, his voice so low he might have been merely humming in agreement.

"To loyalty," Malbert said.

"Indeed."

Metal goblets rang together in a toast. After a silence, the conversation resumed.

"Speaking of loyalty," Malbert said, "how much longer will that little Bertaut goose be clinging about you?"

Margaret burned with embarrassment to think that other people still noticed her attachment to Frollo.

"Only until my mother's passing. She cannot go a day without seeing the girl. Far be it from me to deny her at the last."

"And when our good Lord ends Milady's suffering, what then?"

"I shall place the girl in the Church, naturally. One of its chief missions in this world is to serve as a haven for such unfortunates. The girl's mother is forever tainted by association; she could not possibly be sent home."

"A pity, really," Malbert said, no pity discernible in his voice. "Well-born, buxom thing like that. Might have made a good match, if not for that father of hers."

"True. To lay down one's life and honor for the lives of men who could not withstand the enemy. . . . A lesson, I suppose, in the dangers of disordered loyalty-to the life and limb of those who had already pledged to sacrifice their lives instead of to king and country."

Malbert stammered as though trying to broach a difficult subject. "Of course, I also questioned the boy-very delicately-as to his knowledge about . . . that is, concerning yourself and the ambassador."

The three spies in the passage held their breath even tighter, lest the silence that followed give them away.

"Did the boy speak of me at all?" Frollo asked. Margaret had never heard such uncertainty in his voice. It almost sounded like trepidation.

"Oh no. It was I brought up the subject. I asked him if the enemy had tried turning him over to their side with stories about their commanders betraying them or sending them into danger, and such like. He said they tried to convince the men that Bertaut had betrayed them, but he only knew of you through your . . . supposed personal connection to the Bertaut family."

Self-satisfaction flowed back into Frollo's voice. "Very good. All the same, I should like to avoid a public trial, once the traitor and his men are apprehended. One never knows what wild accusations might escape. Desperate men will say anything to clear themselves."

Margaret steadied her jittery knees against the wall of the passage. A sob rose in her throat; she tried to quell it by biting her tongue, but the pain only increased her shock. Collette's warm hand stroked her shoulder.

"Never fear, Your Honor. We have already diverted our own forces from Calais-"

"Of course, but there is no need for haste. I do not wish you to cut off the invader."

"Your Honor?"

"They are so fond of counter-ambushes, we may as well treat them to an unexpected welcome. Remember, once they have penetrated Paris, they will be surrounded by an enemy that is not so unprepared as they imagine."

"With all due respect, Your Honor, would that not be a risky wager? We never established for certain just how many ships are coming-we saw different groups flying different flags. We didn't have time to stop and inspect them all, or else-"

"If we must make a wager, I have no fear that the Lord who established this city through the conversion of the heathen will weigh the scales in favor of His chosen people."*

Margaret thought she heard Clopin snort softly in the darkness. The creak of a door made the trio start. A new voice was heard on the other side.

"Your Honor, Lady Agnes requests your presence. The leech* has come."

"Inform her that I shall be there presently." There was a hollow scratching sound of chairs pushed over the stone floor.

Malbert spoke up abruptly. "But what of the gypsies?"

"The gypsies? I think you've made the situation perfectly clear. It is obvious they have been collaborating with the enemy, most likely serving as spies, facilitating the invasion. It is as I told my mother. She always focused on the threat to Paris. We now see that the plague has spread beyond our walls, in ways we could never have anticipated. And as your men will have little to occupy them until the enemy reaches the City, you now know exactly how to employ their excess time and energy."

Margaret did not know how she and her companions made their way back to her room. She guessed it had something to do with Clopin's sense of direction and Collette's memory, always so keen to remember the best strategies when they played games, always planning ahead and mapping the scenery. It had nothing to do with her own directions, as the best she could do was defer to the others and limp along beside them, dazed and unsteady.

Back in her room, Clopin vented his disgust to a cold and resolute Collette. Their indignation reached Margaret like the waves on the seashore she had seen only once in her life, when they said goodbye to her father. Now it touched her on the periphery, now receded in a meaningless murmur. She remembered tiptoeing up the unsteady gangplank to the deck of her father's ship, where they stayed so long she began to feel seasick, though the ship never moved from port. The same feeling was upon her now. Her misery was inside her, something rotten, poisoned, that had seemed so wholesome to eat at first. Now she was paying the price, and she would have given anything to heave up and purge the sickness, the stupidity that sat in her stomach along with every loathsome bite she had eaten at the banquet. She rocked back and forth, her arms crossed at her stomach.

Collette called to her from the shore, from the world of people who saw things as they were and understood and always knew what to do. Margaret slouched against her like a ship wrecked on a sandbar.

"All that matters is we found you in time, _ma mie_," Collette said. "I know it is difficult, but you must come _tout suite_. Time later for regrets."

Margaret thought of her mother, small and soft to embrace, and her father, with his once golden beard, now browned with age like an autumn leaf that shrivels in the loam. From thoughts of his deep voice-the same pitch as Frollo's, but how different in tone-her mind shifted to Lady Agnes, lying in bed while her son waited for her to die. Then she thought of Quasimodo, and Denis, both of them dependent on Frollo's scant charity. She stiffened to stop herself from shivering with exhaustion. There was too much to think about. She had never been adept at holding many ideas together at once. Why didn't they teach her that? She now saw that a woman in the safe domestic sphere had just as much need for strategy as a young soldier. Now she was on a battlefield, unschooled, unarmed. But she could hold her own.

"Not tonight," she said. "I can't come tonight."

Clopin was already securing a grappling hook in the windowsill. "Nonsense, _ma dame_. If not tonight, never. We have no intention of risking our skins a second time. Shame enough we cannot help those captive below us."

Collette started to coax, and Margaret knew she had no choice but to shut out her friend. "You heard what Frollo said. Lady Agnes is dying-she might leave us this very night. She never did me any wrong, I can't desert her now. I'm in no danger; Frollo knows nothing about either of you. As soon as Lady Agnes is gone, I'll leave this place. Look for me in Notre Dame."

Collette crushed her hand. "I still remember what happened last time I gave in to your _caprices_."

"Frollo has no idea we heard anything. There's no reason for him ever to know."

"And if he does?"

"It's not as if one more reason to hate gypsies is going to make any difference. No offense, Clopin."

Clopin waved his hat and bowed chivalrously. "None taken, Mademoiselle. _Mais_, you must consider carefully what Mademoiselle Collette says. Did you not hear the Minister speaking of an ambassador, of treachery by the French?"

"He still knows more about this business than anyone," Collette said. "Margaret, I am certain he's bound up in your father's capture. If Frollo is the traitor, and if he knows what we suspect-"

"This is all speculation," Margaret said, doing her best to maintain a firm tone. She tried to imagine she was Lady Agnes, cool and determined. "You're always speculating, and not everything you imagine comes to pass. I have a duty to Lady Agnes . . . and to other people under Frollo's thumb."

"As do we," Clopin said, his spindle form poised on the sill.

Collette pressed her face into Margaret's lap. When she looked up, Margaret knew she had won the bitterest triumph of her life.

* * *

*Clopin may be stuck in the geocentric model of the universe, but at least he knows the world isn't flat.

*To kill two birds with one stone (literally "to hit twice with one stone").

*Doubtless Frollo is referring to the conversion of Clovis I.

*A medieval doctor, named for one of the tools of his trade. . . .


	22. In Vinum Veritas

Author's Note: "In wine [there is] truth." Personalities begin to break under the strain of revelation. And those Frollos have quite a hair obsession. I begin to suspect trichophilia.

Musical Recommendation: Adagio from Violin Concerto in E by J.S. Bach. I love the orchestral accompaniment in this piece. The cellos keep up a tender, mournful rhythm like a heartbeat under the sighs of the violin.

* * *

The clinging of bowls and silverware and the distant murmur of loud voices many floors below had long ceased. The doctor picked up the last black lump that fell to the sheets, swollen and sated with blood. He dropped it in a wooden bowl, which he passed to Margaret. She looked down at the slug-like creatures and thought that here was a true vision of the meal she had eaten that night. As she walked stiffly to the door, holding out the bowl like a priestess with a sacrifice, her shoulder brushed against Frollo's. The touch made her sicker than the leeches.

"Jehan," a voice croaked. Margaret could hardly believe it belonged to Lady Agnes. Of course, she had just woken from a long sleep and would be stronger, more coherent once she came to herself. She certainly had not been so weak that morning, when they had all agreed to go on with the banquet.

"Jehan is no more," Frollo said, taking up his mother's limp hand. "It is I. It's Claude."

"Jehan," Lady Agnes repeated. "You remember I told you to bring him home, my dearest."

As Lady Agnes repeated her dead child's name, Margaret caught the yellowed eyes staring at her, beckoning her closer, famished and desperate. She passed the bowl of leeches to a servant and walked in a trance to the bed, then knelt on the floor and lay her hands and head on the blanket. "Did you want to see me, Milady?" She felt Lady Agnes' delicately jointed fingers weaving themselves into her hair. They caught a snag but kept pulling, until they tore a strand from her skull. She winced. Frollo placed a damp cloth on his mother's forehead, then liberated Margaret's hair. Her teeth began to chatter at the touch of his hand. She clutched the headboard of the bed.

"Doctor," Frollo called. "Before you go, see to the Mademoiselle. She looks unwell. I believe the leeches have made her distraught."

Margaret allowed herself to be lifted up by one of the maidservants and escorted from the room.

"No," Lady Agnes said, her voice louder. She groaned and pushed against the pillow in a vain effort to prop herself up. "I will speak to her. In private." The hunger remained in her eyes but it seemed more human now.

Margaret waited in suspense for Frollo's objection. Instead, he rose with a sigh and stalked out of the room. His hand, as long and thin as his mother's, massaged his drawn face. He looked like a skeleton in the danse macabre painting Margaret had often studied in the library, and the weight of the years pressing into the lines around his nose made her think only one thing over and over to herself-_how old_.

She sat down in his chair. Lady Agnes was overcome by another hacking, choking fit that sounded uncomfortably like the coughing of an old charwoman in the street. At the bedside was an hourglass for checking the patient's pulse. Margaret turned it, watched as half the sand trickled into the bottom, and turned it over again, as though by this action she might slow down time.

"I have sent for a priest," Lady Agnes whispered. Margaret began to squeeze and knead her fingers in her lap. "It has been my custom to see a priest every day, for some time now. I don't suppose my Claude has told you."

"He hasn't mentioned that. Or other things."

"Before I receive absolution, I should like to make a confession to you, my child."

Margaret folded her hands and bowed her head as though she were the one ready to confess.

"I have done a cruel thing. I sought to bind you in a loveless marriage for the sake of my family."

"I know. It doesn't matter. It's what I thought I wanted for myself." For what reason? She had never asked why; there was no need. The emotion itself was a syllogism, one of those logic puzzles Collette had shown her in her father's library-the foolsafe way for learning truth. You entered two categories, and out came the answer, hard-edged and perfect as a jewel, _perficio_, complete. The only trouble came when one of the pieces happened to be counterfeit: Frollo is a man of God, Frollo means well, Frollo is haunted, dark, elegant, a man who knows the world, who orchestrates it, a fine match for any woman. And you must get married some time.

"I have done worse, my child." Margaret listened from a tower like the top of Notre Dame, from which she could look down with detachment on the small, cruel people living their petty lives below. Lady Agnes could confess whatever she liked. "Your mother has sent for you here. She sent a letter-many letters, from your family in Orleans. All were burned. I burned them."

Margaret was pitched from her tower; she fluttered down in the darkness, flailing for a hold, seeking a place to break her fall. Her mother was seeking her all this time. But of course she was. Margaret had known this all along but had floated along in blind trust that Frollo and Lady Agnes would tell her when a letter came, or else send a letter to Orleans at the right time, when the matter of her property had been cleared up. She had not relied on Frollo exclusively, she had known better. Lady Agnes would see to it. But now the last foothold had crumbled. Her mother was miles, days away in Orleans, and did not know whether her only child had been taken prisoner, lost her virtue, or lost her life on the road to Paris. The instrument of all this misery was her last protector.

"I was selfish," Lady Agnes continued. "I wanted a companion in this cold place. And I wanted to torment my son for refusing you. We are proud people in my family, and I have always believed that Heaven granted us that indulgence, out of respect for our station. But now I humble myself to you. It is no longer enough for my son to purchase prayers for my soul. I need absolution from you, child."

Margaret covered her face, not thinking that she mirrored Frollo's last gesture.

"I did love you, my child. Love-for you, for my children-has been my sole motive."

Lady Agnes had known her for barely a year, yet she presumed to use the same word that Margaret's own mother and father would speak in their most intimate moments, in their private chambers, in church, on feast days and birthdays and after long partings. Margaret turned to spit back the word, but stopped when she saw the face of her former idol cracked and defaced by pain.

"I will. . . ." She struggled for breath to finish. "I will pray for you."

* * *

Frollo, a volume of Origen tucked under his shoulder, paced the halls in search of Margaret. Lady Agnes was sleeping once more, her life energy diminished by the draining of her blood, but Margaret had not returned to her chambers.

He found her in the library, where a game of chess had been set up on the table. She was studying the pieces with preternatural intensity, and Frollo questioned for a moment whether she might not have taken ill herself.

"I've figured out the game," she said. Her voice was thick and drowsy, strangely sullen.

"Very good." He supposed that he meant it. "I hope you are improved?"

"Improved. A lot. Doctor gave me something good. It's called _aqua vitae_. It means 'water of life.'"

"Yes, my dear, I'm well aware of the translation." He was also aware of the substance, a popular result of certain alchemical experiments and a popular "tonic" among all classes, much stronger than wine. That was one way to settle a woman's nerves.

"It's made me almost clever. I can see all sorts of things I couldn't see before, like the cards."

"The cards?"

"Esmeralda showed them to me."

Esmeralda-a heathen name if ever he heard one.

"They said I was going to meet the Devil, and I've been worried about it ever since, but not as worried as I should've been. I kept thinking he was on his way. But he was here all the time."

"The Tempter indeed is everywhere, "roaming to and fro, seeking whom he may-'"

"Devour." Margaret picked up one of the chess pieces from the board-the white king-and turned it in her hand, then placed it beside the board. She did the same with the queen, then the knight. Next came one of the white pawns. The four pieces formed a huddled family beside the board. Margaret's eyes narrowed into slashes like those cut in a sleeve to reveal a brilliant contrast of color behind. Her hand rose portentously into the air, hung and wavered, then smote all four pieces into the fire, where they were consumed in the heart of the burning logs.

Frollo clasped his hands and contemplated the scene, though the destruction of his property concerned him little.

"I'm a stupid girl. I'm not accomplished. Not like you, and Lady Agnes. I thought I'd make up for it by being . . . devoted. But apparently you can't get along without knowing how to stab in the back. People here can't even love without hurting. Is that what you did to Jehan?"

Frollo gripped her shoulders and forced her against the wall. She made no resistance, like the rubbery, weightless carcass of a dead bird tossed about in the kitchens. "How dare you insinuate that the one thing that might have saved my brother-discipline, purity-led him to his destruction. I've never heard such madness. Are these the sort of blasphemies you've been whispering to my mother on her deathbed?"

"She did most of the talking, Your Honor." Her voice, loud from the impulse of drink, contrasted with the weakness of her body. "Talked about how you kept me from my family."

"For your own good, you ungrateful woman."

"I'd rather be condemned with my father and mother."

"Fortunately, you have no choice in the matter. I shudder to think where you would be without my guidance, and my mother's." He pressed her to him as he had that day in the carriage, but this time he felt a stronger resistance. He pulled on her hair to force her head back. She smelled of alcohol, like the women who once had clung to Jehan, and even from time to time upset his own equanimity in the bygone student days. He detested drunkenness. Why then did he clutch her tighter, as though he were mortifying his own flesh by holding her close? The innocent Eve had revealed herself for what she truly was: a common strumpet in the garb of a noblewoman. Her degradation was intoxicating, and he began to imagine that he could drink from her mouth the strong spirits that had unveiled her true nature. Would he, too, then stand unveiled?

The air on his face was already warm from her animal panting, he had come so close. Tiny, sharp nails like the harmless teeth of a kitten scratched the back of his neck. He laughed in spite of himself, convulsively, helplessly. Whatever happened tonight would be lost in the haze of her drunkenness the next morning, as though it had never happened. The thought came to him like a papal indulgence in red ink.

Margaret spoke up between gasps. "I guess Lady Agnes always wanted us to be together. Trying to fulfill her last wish?"

No magic charm could have been stronger. He stopped, quavered, and put out a hand to steady himself against the wall. He fell forward to rest his forehead on the masonry.


	23. Res Ipsa Loquitur

**Author's Note:** My sincere apologies for the long absence. I've just moved halfway across the country, started school, lost Internet, got sick, la, la, la. But I'm back again!

The title this time is a legal term meaning "the thing speaks for itself." Some of you may recognize hints of the original novel in this chapter. Initially I planned to read the book after finishing this fic, afraid that the book might muddy the waters. However, I couldn't restrain myself that long. I think it's working out well, as I'm finding the novel much less fussily accurate than I expected and a fantastic read. Not to mention the film doesn't provide quite enough details for a novel-length story. Where the two are in conflict, I'll continue following the film.

**Musical Recommendations:** "Sicilienne" from "Pelleas et Melisande" by Gabriel Faure. Another story about a love triangle and a lady who drops her jewelry down a well. Also "Sleep" by Imogen Heap, which may be my favorite lullaby.

* * *

The great hall remained in disarray, the servants lounging in the passages. Frollo had returned to his mother's chamber in the night and did not emerge the following day, not even to bring news. The shadows on the stone floors receded, then changed direction and grew. The only person Margaret saw that day was a maidservant who brought her two meals, which sat untouched on her table. Jambesfolles trailed her throughout the room. He could read the distress in her slow movements and drooping figure, which he faithfully matched. She ignored her books, her game sets, and her wilting flowers. Most of the day she sat in a chair by the empty fireplace and nursed her forehead with a damp cloth.

That night, the rumor travelled among the servants that Minister Frollo had been seen in a passageway, but immediately disappeared into his own chambers. Reports of Lady Agnes were confused, conflicted. Margaret crept from her chamber and wandered the halls. Her hair fell loose and tangled down her shoulders and back, and her arms did not not move from her side as she walked. She lost her way more than once but eventually came to the door of Frollo's chamber. She stood and listened. From the other side came two sounds, first a high-pitched hiss like a sharp intake of breath, then a snap, as though someone inside were urging on a stubborn horse. The sound came again and again, then was joined by a third: a deep, lugubrious moan. Before she could be moved to pity, she fled the corridor.

It no longer mattered whether Lady Agnes' final moment had come. It would come today, and she would not be allowed to witness it. Already the servants avoided her gaze in the passage, as though she had become a cipher now that her protector was gone.

She packed none of her dresses. When the servant came with her supper, she asked her for a lantern, a tinder box, and a servant's dress. When these were brought, Margaret changed into the servant clothes and tucked her blonde hair under a white kerchief. Jambesfolles began to nose around the room and whimper for attention. She wrapped her arms around his neck and lay her head on top of his.

"You stay, boy," she said. "They won't hurt you. Just don't get attached to them."

He sat reluctantly on his haunches and watched as the door closed between him and his mistress.

Margaret emerged from the Palace by one of the myriad servants' entrances and trailed a woman in gray worsted through the gates, past the unquestioning guards. Outside, the streets of Paris were all alike to her. In search of Notre Dame, she accidentally left the central isle of the City and crossed the Pont au Change, so covered in buildings she did not know she was on a bridge. Lost in back alleyways, she began to ask directions, which only confused her more, until she suspected that the citizens were misleading her on purpose. At last she found the Rue de la Juiverie, the only street she had yet seen that ran straight. The upper stories of the wattle and daub houses were beginning to disappear in the blue shadows of late winter evening. A stocky man with a load of timber on his back stumbled over her where she sat in the dark and fumbled with her lantern and tinder box.

Her candle had almost burned away when she found herself before the carved doors of Notre Dame, beneath the stern faces of the kings and the figures of Abraham and Isaac. When the ostiarius opened to greet her, she stood holding her lantern like one of the wise virgins at the feast. She gave him the lantern and left him to pace the moonlit center aisle. When she reached the altar, she collapsed on her knees in relief.

Denis entered the cathedral with his fishing pole slung over his shoulder and his wide-brimmed hat over his eyes. As he stumped towards the staircase, he heard the echoes of a soft, childlike voice. The words grew more distinct and more uncertain as he approached the altar.

"Please forgive the Minister and comfort him in the loss of his mother. And please forgive his mother - forgive Lady Agnes for . . . for anything that may have displeased You, and receive her soul into heaven. And please. . . ." Margaret's voice began to shake. "Please forgive me. Forgive me. I knew it was wrong, Collette knew it was wrong. I didn't mean to-I didn't think it would turn out this way, but I knew that something was wrong. I didn't want to see it because I wanted to be his wife. I thought he would change, that he needed me. He wants to do what is right, you know that he does. If he could only see You, if You would come to him, Holy Maria. He will never love me, he will never listen to me, because I am so corrupted. But You are pure, and holy, and if you would guide him, I know he would follow. Please. Please. Forgive him. Forgive me. Forgive . . . me. . . ."

Denis flushed for shame at having eavesdropped. He scuffed his boots on the floor and cleared his throat.

"You might have done that a little earlier," Margaret snapped.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not in the habit of interrupting the devotions of our guests."

Margaret leaned against a pew and sighed.

"You're not going back home in the dark, are you? We've already rung the curfew bell. Quasimodo did it all by himself while I was fishing."

"I'm not going home."

"You can't sleep down here. We have a cell for visitors, you could sleep there, if you like."

"Could I sleep in the tower?"

"That's where I sleep."

"If you please, I'd rather not be alone this evening." She was hiding in the shadow behind the pool of light poured in by the rose window, so he could not see her face as she spoke, but he could hear the desperation behind her carefully-chosen words. He stammered. Margaret was always so proper - enthusiastic, but never overstepping the bounds of modesty. He could only hope that she didn't realize the full import of her request. "I suppose . . . you could sleep with Quasimodo. I could guard the door."

"Yes." The tone of her voice relieved him; she spoke like one already asleep. She was still innocent. "That would do very well."

In the bellringer's tower cell, Quasimodo trailed Margaret even more faithfully than Jambesfolles. Despite her exhaustion, she would not lie down in the bed for more than a few moments at time. Then, like a moonstruck simpleton, she would stand up, the sheet sliding from her shoulders, and wander the room with soft padding steps. Denis watched her from his post at the door like a shepherd guarding the fold. She twisted the ruby necklace around her neck, and when she looked down at the pendant, she spoke again like one awakened from a spell.

"Why did he take you in, dear one?" Denis realized she was speaking to Quasimodo. "I don't understand him at all." Quasimodo stared at her, his good eye opened even wider. Margaret turned around. "What changed him?"

"Changed who?"

She did not say, but he knew the answer. "Was it his brother's death? Was he a different man before?"

"I don't. . . ." Denis fumbled for a response that would be true, but not poison. "I don't know about his brother. But I could tell you why . . . about Quasimodo. After he goes to sleep. You're getting sleepy already, aren't you, Quasimodo?"

Quasimodo shook his head.

* * *

A filigree crescent moon rocked on the corner of the cathedral's highest spire. Denis' tale had long been told, and the three occupants of the tower lay asleep. Margaret, however, turned on the cot until the blankets mummified her form. The necklace around her neck flashed in the moonlight like a live coal at her throat.

She dreamed she held Quasimodo swaddled in her arms. Still dressed in her peasant garb, she ran through the endless winding streets of Paris pursued by the Minister's soldiers and five black figures on horseback. The cold tore her open, gasping throat, and her chest burned. Notre Dame appeared above the houses and grew larger as she looked at it, like a thunderhead gathering strength before a storm. The larger it grew, the more distant it seemed. The Place de Greve became a gray wasteland she could not for all her strength cross. She caught sight of the precinct well and stumbled towards it. She was so thirsty, her lips and tongue were thick and gummy. She turned around to find that her pursuers had vanished. Quasimodo began to cry and pull at her hair. She set him on the rim of the well. In her dreaming state, it seemed the natural thing to do, and she did not even think of his falling in.

As she turned the handle to raise the bucket from the well, its blue depths changed to red, and a long, withered hand rose up. It grasped hold of Quasimodo. He screamed and clutched at the stone. Margaret wrapped her arms around him and tore at the merciless fingers. They cut her with their nails and jeweled rings. A ruby shaped like a rhombus tore a long gash in her palm. She ground her teeth to keep from screaming but would not let go. She felt her stomach dragging over the rim of the well. She could peer straight into the flaming depths. She could not see their assailant's face for the smoke, but she knew it so well, she could have traced every line through the haze. She became wilder and more vicious than she had ever imagined herself to be. She clawed and scratched the hand, she bit deep, but it was like biting flame-tempered steel. Then her legs skid over the rim of the well, and the flame rose up to consume the sacrifice.

Unable to imagine such pain, Margaret's mind thrust her out of the dream and back into the silent, cold reality of the belltower. Quasimodo stirred at her side but slept on. Margaret turned and shivered at the cold touch of the chain around her neck. She stepped over Denis' unconscious body and crept from the room.

Outside, the moon had sunk behind the turrets and gables of Paris and would soon disappear from sight altogether. The dawn was still dim and blue, but enough light poured into the well to create shifting webs of light and shadow on the stone. Margaret unbuckled the clasp of her necklace and stared at the pendant like a jeweler who has found a glass counterfeit. She could still feel the fingers of the giver fastening the clasp for the first time, their movements precise, mechanical, careful not to touch flesh or the softest hair at the nape of her neck. The wind played with her hair now, but the water of the well was so far down that its surface did not stir. Margaret held the necklace out over the mouth of the well and watched the gem spinning. Neat and clean, her fingers snapped apart, and the glistening bauble slipped away into the darkness and made only the softest plash as it broke the surface.

* * *

Something smaller and softer than Denis was laying beside Quasimodo when he woke to the sound of Denis ringing the Matins. It was always a comfort to wake up next to Denis, but waking up next to Margaret was a delight that seemed too wonderful to bear, as though waking life were only an extension of his dreams. He felt as though he were floating in an invisible light that warmed his body without brightening the comfortably dark room. He drew his knees up and snuggled closer, then turned over on his back. He always slept on his side, which was much more comfortable for him. But when he was very happy, he liked best to look up at the ceiling and smile. On warm summer nights, Denis would let him sleep beneath the bells, so he could look up at them. He knew them so well, he could imagine their forms in the darkness. Soon the morning light would brush away these insubstantial forms, but then they would see the real bells, and he would ring them as he had rung the curfew, and Margaret would clap her hands for him, and Denis would play tricks and show them his gargoyles. And no one would spoil their joy ever again.


	24. Seignior Savonarola

Author's Note: In which Margaret's prayer is answered. Be careful what you pray for.

Also, I've had a number of readers ask me the ages of the characters. Since it's a common question that I don't envision the story itself answering precisely, you can see a breakdown of character ages at the bottom of the page.

So I don't have to insert a footnote and break up the flow of the chapter, the "festival before Lent" is the Feast of Fools.

Musical Recommendation: "Fas et Nefas," another Carmina Burana song. "Right and Wrong they go about/Cheek by jowl together." And I keep imagining Denis and Margaret waltzing to a tinkly, music-box version of "God Help the Outcasts." Cue canned "aaaw!"

* * *

From the highest windows of the Palace, in the blue wash of early morning, the city was perfect. No roof lacked a single tile, no wall betrayed the slightest crack. The commotion of the peasants, which every day rose like a stench even to the heights of the city, had not yet begun. Paris lay like a wicked child asleep, plotting mischief in its dreams perhaps, but covered for the present by a facade of innocence.

Frollo had spent the entire night on the balcony, erect, the welts on his back still burning, untreated and unbandaged. His flagellation had two ends: to purge himself of his recent (ridiculous and unprecedented) thoughts vis-a-vis Margaret, and to atone for the final sin his mother had revealed. Only the strongest asceticism could reduce the suffering she would surely face now. He shifted his shoulders, to reignite the pain in his back. It lessened the pain in his mind. Why - he wanted to pray it aloud - why had she waited so long to confess? She might have saved him the double pain of loss and betrayal on one night. And then, if Margaret had never come, she might never have confessed to him at all. The truth would have remained between her and the priest.

"The inheritance wasn't my only reason." His mother's voice, her exact words and inflection, were as present to him as if he had called them up by sorcery, like the image of the dead prophet Samuel. "I wanted you to marry for the sake of your soul. And I wanted you to be happy in your marriage, to spare you from the temptations that dogged me, that finally destroyed my resistance." Once again, Frollo could feel his jaw clenching, his eyelid peeling back like that of a driven animal. "It came soon after you were born, my dearest. For you were my last hope. I was certain that, if only I could have a child, that I would be happy with your father, or at least content. He was such a hard man, and so much older than I, which perhaps you did not appreciate as a child. And you did make me happy, Claude, for a time. For a time I thought we should be happy together, you and I, when your father was on campaign."

"But I was not ready to be a mother only. There was a world of experiences denied me by virtue of that marriage, arranged for me by my family with no thought to any sympathy of mind or soul, let alone of the flesh. So when your father left us in Paris one season - late winter, when the peasants celebrate the great festival before Lent - I went looking for one who could grant me some solace.

"I had never seen anything like the festival that year. I've often thought that no festival since was ever so riotous, so mad, so full of color and temptation. I made myself a bright costume, in part to disguise myself from any nobles that might recognize me, in part to attract the attention of the young soldiers who had come in search of what I had to give." The phlegm in her chest forced her to take a pause.

"I found a soldier, younger even than I. What a contrast to your father. Strong and smiling, with light hair and deep, dark eyes. He seemed like a child trapped in a body five times too large for him." She smiled into an imagined distance, and Frollo recognized with loathing how deeply in love she was still with this figure from her past. "He was clearly enjoying the spirits that day, and it took little persuading to maneuver him into one of the dilapidated taverns along the Rue de la Harpe."

"You surely don't mean to relive each moment of this revolting tryst," Frollo rasped.

"Forgive me, dearest. I am weak; my mind wanders. Will you give your mother a drink?" The water dribbled down her chin, once so firm and proud. The fit overcame her again, and Frollo was forced to wait until she could command her fading voice. "It was he, the soldier, who gave me the ruby necklace, the one that sealed your betrothal to Mademoiselle Bertaut." Frollo writhed to think that his detested bond with Margaret should be memorialized by such an accursed object. "It was meant for his own betrothed, but he insisted that I keep it, though I tried to refuse. It doesn't do to argue with a military man with alcohol on his breath." The old wry smirk spread up one cheek.

"But who was he?" Frollo asked. "His name, his station - "

"I never knew. I did not wish to know. Safer for the both of us to preclude any chance of a meeting thereafter."

Frollo grabbed his hair by the roots and twisted.

"So you understand now, why little Jehan, my little tow-headed boy, was so unlike you. . . ."

"And why you cherished him."

"Oh, Claude." The withered hand stroked the long hollow of his cheek. "I never favored him over you. I loved both my sons dearly."

He was overcome by a desire to grab the hand and press it to his lips, but his hands were frozen to the arms of the chair. All he could do was incline his head forward. "I sinned against you, Mother," he said. "I stood by and watched Jehan fall away into perdition. But I never dreamed how it would end."

"My dearest. That wasn't your fault." But he knew, there was no one else to take the blame. Cain, where is thy brother?

In his memory, Frollo passed over the remainder of their talk about the estates, about the donation of his mother's jewels and clothing to the cathedral, and all the mundane and meaningless preparations to be made upon her passing. They could no longer speak as mother to son. After the final revelation, any further confidence between them would be a painful anticlimax.

All that he stopped to linger on was a single comment, unconnected to all that came before: "Deal gently with Mademoiselle Bertaut. I should never have kept her here. I did it to torment you, you know. I wanted you to see what you had given up by refusing her, and opposing me. Send her away to the church. Or marry her now that she's disgraced, if you please-I no longer care. How foolish I was, to think the disposition of my worldly goods would be of any concern to me, now that the end has come."

He said nothing in reply. He dared not commit himself. After all, she had indicated it was no longer any of her business. Margaret's fate lay with him.

He had come in his mind to the final moment, when the coughing overtook her and put an end to speech. When that had passed, she was too weak to utter a sound, aside from the rasping noise that came from the depth of her chest as she breathed. He could not go on to imagine the rest, to remember the moment when he rose to stoke the fire and, upon returning to his seat, realized the deeper silence-the moment when he took the silver mirror and held it to his mother's lips and watched in vain for the smoky image of a moist breath to appear on the polished surface.

These were the recent wounds of memory that he numbed with the day's business. Distant relations in the City and the surrounding countryside were sent for, to take part in the wake that night and the funeral the following day. He sent for Margaret that he might tell her the news and give her time to prepare. Instead of bringing the girl to him, the servant returned alone with a pale, gibbering face.

"Well?" Frollo demanded. "Where is she? Too busy pampering herself at her toilette to wait upon her host?"

"No one has seen Mademoiselle Bertaut anywhere in the Palace," the servant said. "One of the scullery maids declares she saw her go out by the kitchen door yesterday evening."

Frollo tore through the streets on his Flemish stallion, nearly running over a small child scampering after a leather ball. He knew every shortcut to Notre Dame, the only place Margaret might have hidden herself away. He left his mount untied outside the cathedral. A familiar low word in its twitching black ears, and the beast would wait for him until Doomsday.

He threw open the church doors so forcefully, they flung back on their hinges and banged against the wall. The archdeacon tried to placate him, but Frollo brushed him aside on his ascent to the tower. As they climbed, he could hear a distant sound of young, merry voices, like the chatter of fairy folk in the woods. The prattle resolved into words, and he slowed his pace to listen.

"Minister Frollo!" It was Denis' voice, but pinched and nasal. Frollo started, but knew they could not be addressing him in his hiding place on the staircase. "Is what these good people say true?"

"Every word and more, Your Majesty!" It was Denis again, but now speaking in his natural voice. "This monster, this Seignior Savonarola has burned all of Mademoiselle Margaret's books, and never even said he was sorry!"

"No, no!" The voice became deep and resonant. "Forgive me, I will atone for my sins!"

"Silence!" The nasal voice again. "Take him away to the Bastile! He shall ne'er wreck his dastardly deeds on my good people again! Lock him up forever!"

Margaret's voice giggled. "Denis! You'll upset Quasimodo." Her voice trailed away. "That's quite enough."

Frollo stretched his neck to peer up over the top of the staircase. The white noon sun filled the tower. Denis sat at the worktable, which was strewn with carved figurines. Across the way, Margaret sat with a drowsing, smiling Quasimodo in her lap.

The archdeacon stepped up beside him. "Minister Frollo," he whispered. Frollo acknowledged him with a cool glance. "Just look. How could you possibly disturb them? Don't they remind you of something?"

Frollo squinted at the trio. Denis leaned over the worktable and carved a sliver from a long shaft of wood. Margaret gazed down at Quasimodo and stroked his red hair. The concentrated light piercing the shadows gave each of the three figures a golden halo. Margaret drew Quasimodo's attention to a group of pigeons hopping along the rafters. She seemed to stay forever in one attitude, her eyes raised, her finger pointing upwards. Frollo felt his chest tighten. Awe gave way to horror as he focused on the girl and the child playing the chief role in the tableau-the one a temptress who nearly brought him to sin the night his mother lay dying, the other the crooked spawn of an unholy gypsy union. "Blasphemy," he whispered. "Do you mean to suggest . . . !"

His voice rose more than he had intended. Margaret jumped and clutched at Quasimodo. Denis swept his arm over the table and knocked the figurines into a sack.

"My my," Frollo began. Seeing their distress restored his own composure. "How quickly Mademoiselle recovers from her distress at my mother's passing." He noted with satisfaction how her freckled cheek flushed.

"She came to pray for your mother," Denis said.

"Did she indeed? This morning, perhaps? Or last night, as soon as my mother was cold in her bed?"

The trio was silent.

"The servants assured me they saw her leave last night. But there's plenty of room in the cathedral for a distressed young woman to stay, is there not? The cell at the end of the Porte Rouge, for example. Or perhaps Mademoiselle wished to be closer to her companions here? Perhaps she passed the night here in the tower?" Margaret's blush again betrayed her. Frollo gripped the basket in his hands until his fingernails dug into his palms. This was just what he had prepared for, so why did he find it so shocking, so disgusting? It was all he could expect from the little minx to tempt and entice him, and then scurry away to her young paramour. So like Jehan, just as his mother said. Heaven save him from these fresh-faced, lamb-eyed, false innocents.

"Minister Frollo," the archdeacon interrupted, "I'm sure Mademoiselle Bertaut spent the night quite safely."

"She's done nothing wrong," Denis said. "And she's been upset enough. Don't make it any worse."

"I thought you wanted me to come here," Margaret said softly. "I don't wish to be underfoot. I'd like to attend the funeral, if I may."

She was right, but he didn't care to emphasize the point. She was supposed to wait for him to place her in Notre Dame, not slink away of her own accord and fraternize with commoners, as though she were at liberty to orchestrate her life herself. His rage was dulled by pain, both physical and spiritual, added to the exhaustion he was only beginning to recognize. "Come if you like. I have no objection."

"And may I . . . that is. . . ." Margaret stammered and glanced at Denis, who prompted her with a nod. "I'm going to claim sanctuary. Until my father returns. And if you would tell me how I may get a letter to my mother, I would be greatly indebted to you. Even more than I am already." She spoke with forced courtesy.

Frollo suppressed a sneer. She dared to think she had gained the upper hand, that she could lord it over him. Perhaps she remembered something of the night before last? But he had not lost every hold over her. "Your mother? I really couldn't tell you where she may be found. But if she attempts to reach you at the Palace, I don't suppose she'll ever hear from you, as I can't be bothered to take charge of your correspondence, Mademoiselle."

Denis' nostrils flared and he took a step forward. Frollo smiled and placed a basket of food on the table. "A little addition for your breakfast." Quasimodo reached for the basket, but Margaret withdrew his hand. She and Denis eyed the basket as though it were full of snakes. Frollo sighed. "If you really wish to remain here, my dear, I suppose I can make no objection." He glared at Denis. "Provided you take care to guard your virtue."

"There will be no fear on that score," the archdeacon said. "I shall look after the two of them myself."

Frollo nodded and made his retreat. Although things had not quite gone according to plan, Margaret was safely installed with Denis, and it was only a matter of time before he would hear the truth from Quasimodo. Denis' playacting reminded him of the wretched books that Margaret had been reading before he took her in hand. It was impossible for a girl with such filth in her soul not to be corrupted in her conduct, he had seen as much already. And if his own mother could be guilty of such sins, how much more evil could he expect from such a girl?

He was so deep in contemplation, he hardly noticed Denis' voice following him down the staircase. "_Salut_, Seignior Savonarola."

* * *

Age Breakdown

TC begins 17 years before the main events of the film and spans the course of one year. First, I had to decide the ages of the characters in the movie:

Quasi: 20 (The only one that was set in the canon)

Esmeralda: 24 (I think the animators envisioned her about Quasi's age, but I like her a bit older. She pretty worldly-wise.)

Frollo: 65 (A bit young perhaps; the animators estimated him in his 70s. I also imagined him slightly younger, based on how active he is in the climax.)

Phoebus: 30 (Man's got to have time to develop a reputation and fight a few battles.)

Clopin: 33 (This is the one I think will surprise the most people. The way I see it is, he has nasal lines in the film, and in the book he's something of a father figure to Esme. I also like the idea of him being older than he looks or acts, since he's such a mysterious trickster figure. And this way he gets to be a major player in TC.)

* * *

To get the TC ages, subtract 16 or 17 from the ages above (depending on what part of the timeline you're looking at. Watch the seasons for clues.).

Frollo: 49

Margaret: 22 (Yes, matches with such age discrepancies were not unheard-of in the Middle Ages, mostly because marriage was a matter of property, not love.)

Esmeralda: 7

Phoebus: 13

Lady Agnes: 68

Clopin: 16

Quasi: 3

Lord Bertaut: 50


	25. The Witches' Sabbath

Author's Note: Yes, the particular technology in the chapter was indeed used in the 15th century. Not that we're averse to a few anachronisms in Disney-verse, but I like to keep the record straight! By the way, am I the only one who thinks of the closing bit to "Step in Time" from "Mary Poppins" at the end of this chapter?

"We're being attacked by hottentots!"

Musical Recommendation: "Crossfire" by Brandon Flowers. ("Tell the devil that he can go back from where he came/His firey arrows drew their beat in vain/And when the hardest part is over we'll be here/And our dreams will break the boundries of our fear.")

* * *

Lord Bertaut pondered his freedom as he leaned over the starboard side of the _Codfish_. It was almost three days since Phoebus' escape, and the English not only had refused to alter their plans, they had not even restricted Bertaut's privileges on the ship. If anything, he found himself even more at liberty. Whenever he drew the dark glances of the sailors and foot soldiers, Captain Fitzhugh appeared in their midst and addressed him more like a comrade than a prisoner. Many times Bertaut had tried to corner him and draw out an explanation, but each time Fitzhugh slipped away with some excuse. This afternoon, he appeared once more at Bertaut's side. From the Englishman's contemplative gaze, Bertaut began to hope for some enlightenment.

"Rather a pity, the timing of it all," Fitzhugh sighed. Bertaut kept silent, knowing this was the best way to encourage his captor. "Of course we know there's a good chance your little chap won't bring the news to Paris in time, and even if he does, it's unlikely your side can bring back their forces from Calais in time to defend Paris. But it undermines morale a bit. And had I not chosen to wait . . . well, relations among us all might have been more stable at this juncture." Bertaut struggled to remain distant. The air between them weighed on his chest, and he thought for a moment that a cloud had covered the sun, but he blinked and realized that the world was still as well-lit as before. "I chose not to reveal the truth until now," Fitzhugh continued, "as I considered you might be more open-minded after we had sailed a jot together. In the beginning, I could not hope to be believed by you. And even now, I suspect you may not be particularly receptive. But one can't wait forever."

Bertaut encouraged him with a courteous nod. He hoped this movement would conceal his anxiety.

"You are doubtless aware that your military mission was preceded by one of a more diplomatic nature. To whit, our ambassador was received in Paris and even journeyed a fair distance outside the city to meet with the Minister of Justice, who was at that time judging the assizes." Fitzhugh leaned forward. "It was he betrayed your plans, you know."

Bertaut gripped the rail, but otherwise gave no indication of his distress.

"So you see, you've no reason in the world not to fight on our side. It was your own country that cut the ties."

"If it was . . . the Minister - " Bertaut choked on the words. " - it was he alone. Not my country. Not my King." But it was fear for Margaret and his wife that inflamed his thoughts like the bellows of an armory. "And you have no proof. Why should I take your word?" He knew why - because the Minister was a cruel and hard man. He had always seen it, and even now he couldn't account for it. It was this inability to explain that once caused him to dismiss his misgivings. He still couldn't fathom why any man would betray his future family, but when he thought back to the Minister's glances and grimaces, he harbored no doubts.

"I have no ironclad evidence, 'tis true," Fitzhugh said. "Nothing but the words of our ambassador to myself, recounting the conversation."

Bertaut accepted the crumpled parchment and skimmed the words. The details were damning: the Minister had revealed the date of Bertaut's departure, and constantly referenced the growth of the French navy. True, no explicit connection was made between his own travels and the country's military ambitions, but only a fool could have failed to draw the line.

Fitzhugh snatched the paper away, and Bertaut realized he had just lost the only evidence that could have cleared his name. "You realize, of course, that I couldn't possibly allow you to retain such a damning correspondence."

Bertaut sized up the slender Englishman, who stood a full head shorter than he. He could overpower his opponent, but not the entire crew, which would certainly rush to the rescue. Besides, he had a new enemy now, one whose monstrosity overshadowed anything he had seen from the English. The thought that this man now perhaps had married his daughter-he reminded himself that the wedding was not meant to take place until he returned victorious, but so much time had passed, what if they had not waited, had rushed to the altar in his absence? If that were the case, there was only one solution: a duel to the death. And God have mercy on the soul of Minister Claude Frollo.

"It pains me to reveal such an uncomfortable truth, old boy. But surely you see now that our interests in fact converge."

"Perhaps they do."

"But, I say, there's one piece of the puzzle still missing. Whatever did you do to bring this backstabbing Frollo chap down on you?"

"I'm not entirely certain. But whatever the reason, Minister Frollo is about to find it wasn't worth it."

* * *

The funeral of Lady Agnes hung over the city for days like the scent of incense clinging to brocade. Denis left his figurines in the cupboard and spoke softly, so that Quasimodo would understand the need to be gentle with Margaret. Denis kept seeing her as she leaned over the coffin to kiss Lady Agnes farewell. She had been strangely composed that day, until she saw Frollo stand stiff and expressionless over his mother. Then she lost all composure, and Denis had rushed down from the balcony to escort her away from prying eyes and gossiping tongues.

Now it was May Eve, the last day of April, and Denis was privy to plans for a new kind of celebration that evening. He made the mistake of confiding in Quasimodo, who proved less than competent at keeping secrets. He scampered through the tower all day long, piping snatches of made-up songs, smiling conspiratorially, and asking if it was alright to tell Master "the secret" (of course it wasn't). Evening came, and according to their plans, Quasimodo went to bed early, while Denis convinced Margaret to slip outside for the celebration. She left Quasimodo reluctantly, only after Denis convinced her that the boy's view would, for once, be even better than theirs.

The Place du Parvis had been cleared, except for the giant maypole erected for the following day. The holiday riff-raff had gathered, including the gypsies, and it took Denis and Margaret no time to find Clopin frolicking in their midst. He was dressed in his harlequin disguise again - the costume in which he was known as "Monsieur L'Heureux."* No one knew if this disguise protected him from Frollo's men, but at least it made him recognizable as the city's unofficial master of ceremonies.

The last blue shades in the sky faded to black, and the bonfires roared to life like a series of signal fires. The crowd flocked to the flames and the wildest - led by Clopin - began leaping through the flames. Denis found himself hailed left and right by old companions of both sexes. The young women in particular were a bit brazen. Mademoiselle Nicole, an old friend from his guild days, appeared in a purple gown with ribbons fluttering through her black hair. The crowd began to separate into circles around the fires, and he found himself holding Nicole's hand. Margaret danced awkwardly across the way. Clopin refused to join hands with anyone, and instead went cartwheeling across the square. He vaulted up on top of a stack of crates, where he took up a wild gypsy dance to the tune of a fiddle below - he kicked up his heels, slapped the soles of his pointed shoes, and tapped his feet ever faster until they seemed a blur.

Denis had forgotten what a good dancer Nicole was. They broke off from the circle and wordlessly took up a dance he'd learned from the gypsies. Nicole's waist and shoulders undulated, serpentine, and his hands followed the movement of the curves. It was sensuous, but for him that sensuality was only part of the dance, a work of art like his carvings. His chest was pounding and pumping, and sweat from his nose and forehead left the taste of salt on his lips. It was so long since he had given himself over to the dance.

The music stopped to give them all a respite, and he realized he could no longer see Margaret. He found her a few steps away from the bonfire, perhaps overheated, but her smile was awkward and forced, like the smile he had sometimes seen her pull in response to Frollo, more a subservient grimace than a smile. Her brown eyes flickered gold in the light like the eyes of a timid animal. He wished he could bring her in, but it was out of the question. No gentlewoman, no matter how fallen her fortunes, would be seen dead performing such a scandalous dance.

Then he saw Clopin leap down from his perch. He bowed to Margaret with a flourish of his hat, kissed her hand, and whisked her into the wildest dance Denis had ever seen. Margaret moved only from the waist down, and only enough to keep pace with her partner, who tossed her from side to side. The sight reminded Denis of Old Poubelle, the weaver's wife, who used to dance passionately with her broom.

But as the music grew faster, Clopin's partner warmed and softened in the heat of the bonfire. She became supple, her mouth spread into a childlike smile, and all her tiny white teeth glittered in the light. Denis resumed the dance with Nicole, but his attention was no longer absorbed by the steps.

His chance came when a fifth dancer, a redheaded woman with her hands on her hips, sauntered up behind Clopin and tapped him on the shoulder. Margaret laughed and clapped her hands, apparently recognizing a friend, and watched the pair bound away. Denis bowed out of his engagement with Nicole and danced towards Margaret. Her cheeks were flushed, but he reminded himself that this was only natural for a girl dancing in the firelight.

"You're a fast learner," he panted.

"This is quite unusual for me, I assure you," she said with a smile.

"Hey now. Cut that out. Learn to take a compliment. Just because it comes from a poor boy. Doesn't mean you've got to throw it back."

Her reply was cut off by a sound like thunder. Margaret wasn't the only one to scream and cover her ears. Denis doubled over with laughter.

"I never saw any clouds," Margaret said. "It's just that time of the year I suppose. Should we take cover?"

He laughed harder in spite of himself. Above the light of the fires, a new light flashed.

"Denis, we've got to go back; you know how frightened Quasimodo is of storms. What's that smell? Like smoke, but - "

Denis wrapped his arm around her shoulder. "It's not a storm. Look!"

Her eyes followed his up past the rooftops. Another boom shook the square, and was followed by a burst of light and color like a spider web spreading across the sky. Margaret covered her mouth.

"Fireworks!" Denis said. "Bet they didn't have those in your little country hamlet, eh? It was Clopin's idea."

As was clear from the gypsy's even wilder gyrations and shouts above the awed gasps of the crowd. The rockets went up all along the edge of the square, and children holding sticks tipped with bursts of light like flowers ran through the crowd. Esmeralda appeared holding a light the same color as her eyes, which she passed on to Margaret. Margaret held it out from her body, still a bit uncertain, but smiling. Clopin took up a paean to May, and soon all of Paris was singing, both the dancers in the square and those in the townhouses above who threw open their windows to belt out the tune. The bells of Notre Dame began to chime, and Denis felt his own heart expanding and glowing like the fireworks at the thought of Quasimodo using the bells to join all Paris in their celebration.

All except for Claude Frollo, miles away in the Palace of Justice, who was jolted from a dead sleep by the flashing lights at his window. He sent for Captain Malbert.

"The heathen vagabonds are out in full force. Did I not tell you? It's a Witches' Sabbath. I should have known we'd have no peace tonight."

* * *

*Clopin's alias translates to "Mr. Happy" but is also a real name.


	26. Novel Amusements

Author's Note: Yay for the return of Clopin! Some quick headnotes for those interested in my research: medievals considered sparrows to be very . . . flirtatious. And the sanguine humor is one of the four bodily fluids thought to control human emotions. The sanguine humor, or blood, was linked to courage, hope, and of course, love. There - now I don't have to interrupt the story.

Musical Recommendation: Joseph Joachim's Violin Concerto No. 2, Allegro Un Poco Maestoso. This piece, subtitled "In the Hungarian Style," has quite a gypsy air to it. Listen for the haunting flute solo in the second half. Also, "Tempus Est Iocundum," which Denis and Clopin here perform for your amusement. Lyrics at the end.

* * *

The gypsy musicians had begun to flag, but the crowd of dancers continued to replenish itself from the masses. In the middle of a jig, Denis noticed Nicole and his old friend Jamet scheming under the arch of a shop. The proprietor came out to speak to them, and after a moment of haggling, the shopkeeper appeared with an instrument Denis had not seen in years: a salandj, or bagpipe as the English called it, the instrument his father had brought back from Constantinople and taught him to play. His fingers tensed with anticipation. Nicole and Jamet scrambled towards him, holding the bagpipe over their heads like the trophy of a hunt.

"It's yours for the night, Denis!" Jamet shouted. "No need to thank us, just give us a tune."

It was a beautiful instrument, without so much as a fingerprint on the pipes. Denis blushed under Margaret's gaze. There was no telling what he would sound like after so many years, but there was no placating his friends. He wrapped his lips around the polished mouthpiece, blew a few notes to warm his lungs, and began to play: a loud blast, then a string of trills and flourishes.

The dancing stopped. Mouths fell slack. The wailing, warbling sound was foreign, otherworldly, like no tune composed in Paris. Some had heard bagpipes, but not played like this. This was an Eastern melody, a song that turned in on itself, that looped in ever more fantastic designs like the arch of an Ottoman temple.

No one recognized the song - except for Clopin, and a new arrival at the festivities.

The crowd in the square was so great, even Frollo and his men went unnoticed. Frollo paid little heed to the peasants on the outskirts. They were debauched but harmless. His attention was absorbed by the center of the ring, where a brighter crowd gamboled in the firelight. His horse tossed its head and snorted at the hellish glow of another demon light in the sky. In the midst of the chaos, Frollo caught the strains of a fearful pagan tune. He knew it in his marrow, like a poison that had seeped there and festered for years. It was a favorite in the taverns where he used to find his brother. It was the song they sang on the night of his first temptation, and Jehan's last.

"Totus floreo,

iam amore virginali

totus ardeo

novus, novus, novus amor

est, quo pereo!"

The strong tenor of a tall, spindle-legged gypsy boy was crying the hateful chorus to the skies. Beneath the tower of crates where the gypsy danced, Frollo glimpsed Margaret's gold hair. She stood with her arms wrapped around the neck of Denis de Moreuil. His horse quivered; it could sense its master's passion. Frollo watched the pair so intently, he hardly noticed when Malbert rode up to his side.

"Well now," Malbert said, "the little sparrows are pairing off, are they? I wouldn't have thought it of a high-born lass like the Mademoiselle. All the same, just watching it makes the sanguine humor rise, don't it? Shall we give them a chance to scurry off before things get ugly, Your Honor?"

"Nonsense. Give the signal."

Malbert waved his torch. Down the way, another light wavered in response, followed by another, in a strange parody of the bonfire lighting. Black figures blotted out the bright colors of the crowd and doused the bonfires. A cloud of steam rose up and cloaked the square. Frollo and his captains rode their monstrous Flemish horses out of the mist and stood towering over the mob.

Clopin remained perched atop his tower of crates. He folded his arms and stared down with lazy hooded eyes at the tightening knot of gypsies surrounded by soldiers and pointing spears. The attack was no surprise. They could rely on one hope only - the mob - and pray its passing hatred for his people would be outweighed by its hatred of Frollo. This was the bluff he had dreamed of his whole life.

Above the crowd, a little girl's voice rose taunting, improvising new lyrics for Denis' tune.

"Minister Frollo, nose like a hook,

Makes the girls scream if he gives them a look!"

The crowd first chuckled, afraid to laugh, until the pressure could no longer be contained and the guffaws burst. Clopin wasn't sure whether to jump down and embrace Esmeralda for her brazen ditty, or strangle her for putting herself in danger again. At any rate, she had set the mood.

"Minister Frollo!" he called out, bowing with a flourish of his feathered hat. "How good of you to join us. Forgive us for not inviting you. We assumed a man of your advanced years would be more comfortable at home abed on such a chilly night."

"Insolent boy. How dare you make your devil's mischief at a time like this, when the whole city anticipates an attack from the enemy. You heathens should be down on your knees imploring divine aid. Instead you dabble in the arts of hell."

"Hell? Nay, Your Honor! 'Tis a harmless amusement, approved by His Holiness in Rome. A simple invention, powered by the same principle as your battlefield cannon. You could hardly disapprove the weapons of war being turned to peaceful purposes, swords to ploughshares. See for yourself." He waved to a stocky gypsy man, who picked up an unlit cylinder topped with a point like a devil's tail. The man opened the canister and poured out a pile of black powder. "Merely your harmless gunpowder-harmless until it touches the flame, that is. As your captain there should know - from the looks of it he uses it on his beard. Your Honor could put it to a similar use; a good blacking of the hair takes years off a man."

Malbert snorted and turned away.

Frollo stared, impassive. "Be that as it may, your mischief has awoken all of Paris, and you are under arrest for disturbance of the peace. Every one of you."

"All of us? Dear me. Are you certain the Palace has room enough for the whole city?"

"Not all Paris. Only you miserable gypsies. Consider it an offer of protection. We know that you gypsies have been fraternizing with the enemy. Once the truth gets out, there's no telling what the citizens of Paris might do to you and your people. You're safer by far in the Palace dungeons. Round them up."

Clopin was used to gauging a crowd and playing to its whims, but here in the dark it was impossible to tell whether the citizens would come to the gypsies' aid or stand by in fear. Better not to take the risk. He looked over his shoulder at the stockpile of fireworks kept back for the grand finale.

"Monsieur Denis!" he called out. "A light to help an old friend find his way down!"

Denis passed up a torch, then dashed into the crowd with Margaret close at his heels. Clopin squinted, waved the torch back and forth to limber his arm, then pitched the light straight at the mountain of fireworks. "_Attention_!"

A light blinded the crowd, and a boom like a barrage of cannons shook the cobblestones, shattered windows, and knocked swinging signs from their poles. Rogue serpents and whirligigs of light shot through the sky. Men and horses screamed, stumbled over each other. Clopin leapt from his tower, whisked Esmeralda into his arms, grabbed Collette by the wrist, and darted away through the jumbled mass. All were so intent to save themselves, no one saw where the the gypsies had vanished.

* * *

Humiliating as it was to be outwitted by gypsies for the second time that year, Frollo had to admit that a great deal of good had come of it. His mental clarity was mirrored by his open view of the city, as he strolled the top of the wall with Malbert. The Captain was explaining the operation of the cannons, but Frollo barely heard any of this lecture. He was basking in the joy of renewed purpose, which mercifully distracted him from his mother's passing. The fireworks had reminded him of the cannons the city kept back for the battlefield. They had never been used in defense of the city before, but they were about to be tested. With such power at his disposal, it made no difference that the Minister of War and the greater part of the French forces were gone. He could singlehandedly take the invader himself, and thus fulfill his purpose as protector of the city.

"Bit of an irony, isn't it?" Malbert said. "Beating the ploughshare back into a sword, as the gypsy boy might say. By the way, I don't suppose you've seen Mademoiselle Bertaut and her little paramour lately?"

"Who? Ah, yes. They returned safely to the cathedral, of course."

"Well, that's a mercy anyhow. I'd hate for anything unpleasant to befall the little maid. The boy still with her, you say?"

"Of course. But I intend to discharge him as soon as we have repelled the attack. He's a terrible influence on my ward."

"I see. And the maid? Will you be . . . discharging her as well?"

"I had thought to place her in holy orders."

"Had thought?"

"After her behavior the other night, of course I have my doubts. I always have."

"Seems a bit silly, anyhow. Put your homely girls in convents, I say."

"Mademoiselle Bertaut is no beauty."

"Nobody said she was, but even you'd admit she's got a sort of prettiness. Reminds me of a little mouse I used to visit down in Carcassonne." A leer spread over the captain's face. "I don't suppose you'll be wanting anything more to do with her?"

Frollo steepled his fingers. "I really haven't had a free moment to consider it, Malbert."

"Of course, of course. I was just thinking. Well, if you don't want her, and certainly nobody else does. . . ."

"You surely don't fancy the girl." Frollo raised his eyes to heaven. "If only you knew. Of all the silly, prating-"

"Oh, come now, Your Honor. You don't expect me to believe she never tickled your vanity a bit. After all, neither of us is getting any younger, if I may say so. It can't be that dreadful a cross to accept the attentions of a pretty, plump little thing like that."

Frollo sniffed. "It is an imposition."

"Well, I wouldn't mind if the little Mademoiselle imposed on me. In fact, I wouldn't mind imposing on her a bit."

"You wish to corrupt her? Malbert, you disgust me. Why ever do I keep you in my employ?" But he couldn't help smirking. "You'd corrupt a saint."

"What can I say, Your Honor? Our Lord kept company with the Devil himself from time-to-time, to test his own mettle."

"I'm only grateful you've revealed your intentions, so that I may protect the girl."

"Oh yes. Stick close by her, Your Honor. I'm sure you'll be very . . . protective. Wouldn't want her running about making inappropriate attachments now, would we? Like that boy, for instance."

* * *

Tempus Est Iocundum Lyrics

*With love

I bloom

for a maiden,

my new, new, new love

of which I perish.


	27. Best Laid Plans

**Author's Note:** After re-reading the information on ratings, I've bumped this one up to "Teen." It irks me, as I feel "Teen" suggests PG-13 content, and think the story has a PG feel. However, I wouldn't want to get in trouble or offend anyone. The change isn't meant to reflect a coming increase in mature content. I intend to keep us squarely in the realm of "Disney-inspired young adult fiction."

Also, a fun fact: the pike was actually used in heraldry and referred to as a "lucy," from the English word "luce" for pike. And you can read the translation of Frollo's Latin quote at the bottom of the page (I get a twisted delight out of making him quote Catullus, of all people. Kids, don't you go reading random translations of this fellow.)

**Musical Recommendation:** "The Fire" by Imogen Heap. Not at all what the title suggests. This is a gentle pianoscape, a campfire in a secluded forest, slowly burning down to the embers.

* * *

The fireworks had become an obsession. Night and day Quasimodo talked about them, invented new kinds, described them to Margaret and Denis. He suggested fireworks in rainbow colors, fireworks that made different noises (a whoosh or a zip instead of a boom), and fireworks in the shapes of animals (especially cats, a fascination of his ever since one small tabby, tempted by the smell of fish, had begun to follow Denis). Thursday afternoon, he set up Denis' figures and played for the tenth time that Master Frollo grudgingly allowed him to set off fireworks in the square. Breathlessly he chattered the approving voices of the townspeople, who had never seen such a clever boy. Margaret was outside on the roof airing laundry, and Denis was out catching their Friday meal.

"Good heavens." Master Frollo's shadow slid across the table. "What are you on about this time, my boy?"

Quasimodo shrunk down. "It's fireworks. They're doing the show." He snuck the figurine of himself out of the circle and tucked it away behind a wooden bowl.

"How perfectly charming." Frollo removed his hat and leaned over the table. "Does Monsieur Denis make these for you?"

"He make them. I. . . ." He struggled for the word to express painting, and pantomimed brushing. "I help put the colors."

"What a clever boy. Monsieur Denis has made a model of himself, I see. And Mademoiselle Margaret. The very life. But, dear me. . . ."

Quasimodo trembled. Whenever Master Frollo noticed something, you could never tell how things would end.

"I do believe they're set up incorrectly. Indeed. Mademoiselle Margaret is right next to Monsieur Denis. That isn't right, is it? Of course not." He plucked the figurine of Margaret and set it down behind the figure of himself. "Mademoiselle Bertaut is always bothering Master, is she not?"

"She like Denis, too."

"I suppose. But Monsieur Denis is hardly proper company for a lady, isn't that right?"

This didn't make sense; Denis and Margaret were always together. Quasimodo looked around the room as though searching for an answer, or an escape hatch.

"Why don't you show Master how to play? It seems a lovely game. Let's play 'house' with them, shall we?"

Quasimodo squeezed his hands. Master never played games with him. How did one play with Master? Then again, perhaps it meant that Master liked him after all.

"Let me see . . . I do believe it's bedtime. Why don't you show Master how everyone has bedtime?"

Quasimodo gingerly set his figure and Margaret's into a wooden bed with a scrap for a sheet. There was no way for him to indicate Denis sleeping in his cell below, so he lay the figure down on the edge of the table.

Frollo rubbed his lips. "Charming. But this isn't the only way of doing bedtime, is it? Sometimes everyone sleeps in different places, do they not? Like so." He exchanged Quasimodo for Denis in Margaret's bed, and lay the sheet on top.

Quasimodo was terrified of contradicting Master, but Master sounded so earnest, a correction seemed necessary. He prattled away, half to himself, half to Frollo. "No. No, not . . . over here . . . in the . . . downstairs . . . Denis downstairs in. . . ."

"I see." Frollo clasped his hands and glared at the figures, then at Quasimodo. Apparently the two sinners had managed to keep the boy ignorant, for now. That was one consolation. He was just beginning to recognize the dawning of consciousness in his ward. As repulsive as he found the boy, this development fascinated him. He had assumed such an infernal creature would remain half bestial. Instead, the boy was becoming responsive. Could he be capable of developing a conscience? The boy realized he was being watched and looked up. Frollo found himself stroking the boy's head. He thought of the night he had burned Margaret's books, thereby saving her, for a time, from corruption. The same warmth he had felt then overcame him now. And they called him a cold man. They couldn't see his protective nature, his desire to shelter, to smother his boy with affection, to ensure that such creatures were kept safe and sound, locked snugly away where no one else could ever get at them, ever corrupt their simple, weak, trusting natures-

"Frollo!" Margaret stood at the top of the stairs. "You scared me. I didn't know you were here."

"Forgive me. I did not think merely visiting my ward could upset you so, my dear."

Margaret set down the laundry in a corner. He wondered if she knew what it looked like from his vantage point when she turned her back to him and bent all the way over. He wondered why he even noticed; something to do with Malbert and his filthy insinuations, no doubt.

"I must say, the peasant costume suits you," he sneered. "Perhaps it's the way you carry yourself. But, dear girl, whatever have you done with the necklace I gave you?"

"I think the chain broke when I was drawing water. It must have fallen in the well. A lot of things end up there. People are always dropping things in it. It's a wonder we aren't all poisoned."

Frollo tried not to glance at Quasimodo. "And you simply left it there? What a careless girl. No one will give you pretty things if you make a habit of losing them."

"I don't need anything. . . ."

Frollo stood up. It was an advantage to be one of the tallest men in Paris. "Growing impertinent, are we? I had hoped your time here would prepare you for your future in the Church. Instead it seems to have made you sullen and stuck-up, though about what I can't imagine."

"I don't need to enter the Church. I'm already in it."

"This cannot be a permanent situation. You require oversight, Margaret. I suppose you fancy I did not see you and Monsieur Denis on your little May Day frolic?"

"We went to the celebration along with everyone else. We didn't do anything wrong."

"I fear it is only a matter of time before that boy tempts you."

"Monsieur Denis is a gentleman. More than some members of the nobility. 'Good character alone makes any man worthy of love.'"

Frollo wrinkled his nose and shot back, "Hoc tu quam lubet abice elevaque: nec servum tamen ille habet neque arcam."

"I hate when you quote Latin. I can't understand a word."

"Me neither," Quasimodo said. Margaret smiled and ruffled his hair.

"No matter. I think you understand my position on Monsieur Denis well enough."

Margaret placed her hand on one of the figurines and twirled it. "I don't know why you care."

"You seem to resent me, but I have done nothing but endeavor to help you, Mademoiselle. You seem to imagine that you are the only one who has suffered in all of this. Think of me, my dear. A lonely man, entering the autumn of his life, graced with the affections of a young woman, happy in the anticipation of conjugal bliss. And in one blow, my hopes dashed, my mother - " At the last word, his voice changed and caught in his throat. This was highly irregular. "I . . . I have suffered quite as much as you. Must we part enemies?" He took the figurine out from under Margaret's palm and raised her chin. "I for one would hate to sully the memories of our idyll together." His tone was so honeyed, he almost imagined these regrets were real.

Margaret, however, did not respond quite as expected. The tigress was out again, just as on the night of their vigil at his mother's bedside. "Do you like telling lies just for the sake of it? I never imagined anyone could enjoy being cruel, until I met you. You never cared two straws about me, I heard you talking to Captain Malbert - "

Her mouth snapped shut. A cold breeze blew in between the lead slates of the tower and tossed Frollo's cape. "Captain Malbert? When have you ever heard me conversing about you with the captain . . . my dear?" Her lips quivered deliciously. After years of interrogations and tortures, Frollo knew all the signs of guilt. This was all the confirmation he needed. The girl was not only a minx-she was a spy.

Denis' voice echoed from below. "Margaret! You'll never guess what I caught. A pike! A great long grey thing, with enormous grinning teeth, and the longest, pointiest nose you ever saw. You know who it looked just like?" He froze on the landing.

"Yes, Monsieur Denis?" Frollo urged. "Whoever did this fantastic creature remind you of?"

Denis' eyebrow arched in a mirror image of Frollo's. "Why, it looked like the Devil himself."

Margaret rushed to Denis's side. "Have you seen the Archdeacon?"

"I think he's in the cloisters." There was no need to ask if something was wrong, with Frollo standing before them. Their eyes told the whole story.

Margaret's tone remained brisk. "Wonderful. Would you just stay with Quasimodo while I go ask him . . . ask if we could have some eggs? I think I can make a paste for getting those spots out of your tunic."

"How awfully clever," Frollo said. "Leave it to the Mademoiselle to blot out anything, as if it never happened."

Denis hoisted Quasimodo into his arms and turned his back to Frollo. "I thought you didn't approve of Margaret being left alone with gentlemen visitors, Minister Frollo. I think next time you'd better wait for me to come home before you drop in."

* * *

Celestial fire swept over the skies of Paris and burned out a silhouette of the city. Margaret and Denis sat on the roof of the western tower and drank steaming cups of rosehip tea while Quasimodo drew pictures of his gargoyle friends. Denis thought how similar they must be to so many families below, despite their strangeness-living like birds in the belltowers, none of them bound by ties of blood or marriage. It was high time that changed. Frollo's visit that afternoon left them no choice.

"But you didn't really overhear anything, did you?" he asked Margaret.

"That night? I only learned that Frollo never intended to help my father at all. And that he seemed eager to hide something. Sometimes I wonder what it could be; then I think I don't want to know. I've already learned too much."

Denis lay his hand on her cheek. It was so soft and rounded. They were so close, he could count every freckle. He had once caught her inspecting her face in a mirror and frowning, as though she didn't like what she saw. He'd even caught her pulling her bodice laces unduly tight while she held her breath, as though trying to mold her nicely padded figure into the slender ideal of artistic beauty. He wondered how girls like Margaret could manage to squash themselves so small. It all had to go somewhere. It must have something to do with that softness. He turned away so she wouldn't see him grinning. But she wasn't looking at him. Her eye was fixed on the black outline of the Palace of Justice, its spires like knives and pikes brandished against the sky.

"I'm afraid, Denis. Frollo thinks I know something. He's always talked about putting me in a convent. Now I'll consider myself lucky if that's where I end up."

"Why would you join a convent?"

"There's nowhere else for me to go." Her strained voice turned matter-of-fact. "I'm not marriageable, after-well, you know. Besides, I'm practically an old maid anyway." Her laugh was too loud for mirth.

Denis felt as though he were watching the portcullis of a castle descend. If he dashed forward, he might get inside before it closed, or he might be impaled on the spikes. "I don't even know how old you are. Which is funny, considering. . . . You know, Frollo's always going on about how I'm going to corrupt you. Maybe we should give him something to complain about." Judging by Margaret's wide eyes, he might be impaling himself now. "I don't mean - I would never. . . ." He folded his arms and leaned forward until he had almost folded himself into a spiral. He needed to make his whole body compact in order to think. "I know marriage is all about reputation for people in your class." It was, after all, the only reason she could ever have been betrothed to someone like Frollo. "But people like me, we're different."

"I don't think I have a class anymore, Denis."

He didn't know what to say. After all she'd been through, he couldn't tell her this had its advantages. "I wonder. Doesn't that mean you can do what you want now?"

"I guess we already do whatever we want."

"Well, almost whatever we want." He had her gaze this time, and the wonder in her expression was gone, replaced by a stillness that was almost mournful. He leaned forward and kissed her eyelids. "I don't know why, but I always wanted to do that."

"Quasimodo. . . ."

"I know." The little boy was adding the finishing touches to his picture. There would be time enough for privacy, soon. "You know, he'll have to get used to some of this eventually. I'm not always going to treat you like one of my stone angels. But first I've got to get you out of this church. I'm sick of Frollo skulking around here, terrorizing you and Quasimodo. We hardly ever see your friend Collette, still less Clopin; they don't dare come near the place."

"We've claimed sanctuary."

"We won't need it if we leave Paris. All three of us." Margaret smiled, but it was the smile of someone who didn't believe in happiness. "Why not? We don't need anyone's permission to . . . to get married. And you couldn't ask for a better venue than Notre Dame."

"My mother, and Collette. . . ."

"We'll find them. Get them to come with us. Maybe we'll join a gypsy caravan. Frollo'd love that!" She was resisting, but not with her whole heart. He didn't want to manipulate her, but he felt he had to nudge her, to free her from whatever strange doubts were pulling her away from him. He buried his face in her shoulder and let her hair run over his face and tickle his nose. "I will give up anything to keep you safe. I don't want to force you into anything. But I wouldn't trust myself to run away with you if I weren't your husband. I'd have to turn you over to someone else. And who could I trust with anyone so sweet?" She was nosing his hair now. His voice was muffled, his lips pressed against her skin just above the neckline of her peasant dress. "I don't have a ring. You'll just have to take my word for it. I want to marry you."

"I want to marry you."

He wished he could say something romantic, but instead he grinned and blurted out, "Is there an echo here?"

Quasimodo stopped drawing and cupped his hands. "Halloo!" he called out, then listened for the echo.

"Hey, Quasimodo." Denis stared dramatically and pointed off in the distance. "Is that a falcon?"

"Where!"

Denis flung his arms around the soft corseted figure and pressed his open mouth against Margaret's, before anyone could see there wasn't a bird in the sky.

* * *

*From Catullus:

"You may put this aside and make as little of it as you like:

For all that, he has neither servant nor money chest."


	28. The Nine of Swords

Author's Note: The closest I could find to the words of a medieval wedding ceremony are actually English and about 100 years too late, from the Book of Common Prayer, but I like to think I'm not too far off. Also, it may be a coincidence, but it seems like my daily views have increased ever since I bumped up the rating. *chuckles and eyerolls* No further comment.

Musical Recommendation: "Gelido in Ogni Vena" by Vivaldi. For his opera "Farnace," Vivaldi borrowed a melody from "Winter" in the Four Seasons, set to lyrics vividly depicting the sensation of terror - "ice flows through my veins."

***

It still didn't feel the way Margaret had expected. Perhaps it was that the cathedral had become her home and no longer seemed like a place of ritual. She squeezed her bouquet tighter, only to feel the bite of a rose thorn Denis had forgotten to cut. The Archdeacon smiled in concern - he must have seen her wince - but continued the ceremony. This must be what people meant when they talked about "blushing brides." Thank heaven their only audience was Quasimodo, sitting in a front pew with a sprig of lavender clasped in his chubby hand.

Margaret tried to attend to the Archdeacon, both out of respect and to ensure she did not miss her part, but her mind kept wandering. She had not let Denis kiss her since the day of his proposal. Was that even a proposal, properly speaking? It wasn't like the scene she had dreamed of, with a man in armor on his knees, offering her his heart with a ring and a rose. Not that she much minded. Frollo would never have gone down on his knees, either.

She wished she could stop thinking of him, especially at this moment. It seemed like treachery to the boy standing opposite her. He was so young and strong and handsome, she felt like an impostor trying to become his wife. It was too sudden to comprehend, and yet, was it any more sudden than her betrothal to Frollo had been? Yes, that had been just as sudden. Was it fear that kept dredging up the Minister's name?

This wouldn't do - there was no comparison between her new and her old love. Old love? It didn't even deserve the name.

When the ceremony was finished, would the Archdeacon let them kiss, here under the crucifix and in the sight of all the saints?

"I require and charge you both," he said, "as you will answer at the dreadful day of judgement when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment, why you may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, that you confess it. For be well assured, that so many as be coupled together otherwise than God's Word doth allow are not joined together by God; neither is their matrimony lawful. "

Margaret glanced at Denis for some clue to her response. His mouth twitched in that awkward, charming smirk, and he shook his head with a dismissive frown. She shook her head likewise. The Archdeacon turned to Denis.

"Wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her - "

His voice was swallowed up in the echo of the front doors flying back against the wall with a sound like cannon fire. The clinking and rattling of armor filled the sanctuary. Above all these noises Margaret heard a voice. She did not have to look down the aisle to recognize the speaker. Brother Gatien, who stood that day in lieu of her father, touched her elbow, as though afraid she might collapse.

Frollo and Captain Malbert stopped halfway down the length of the sanctuary. "Enough!" Frollo shouted. "I declare the existence of an impediment."

The Archdeacon took a step forward. He glared like a boar at the spear of the huntsman. "Minister Frollo, I dearly hope you have a good explanation for this untimely interruption."

"Why else should I interrupt such a sacred event? But this woman profanes the very name of matrimony." He came closer, his step so heavy it seemed his boots would pound the checkered tiles through the floor. Denis interposed himself and reached behind his back to take Margaret's hand.

Frollo tapped his fingertips, his hands twice as large in their great leather gloves. "And you really thought, my dear, that you would go through all of this under my very nose, and I never hear of it until after you had absconded with my ward?" Margaret glanced at Quasimodo cowering in the pew. Much as she hated to think of it, he was the only one who could have revealed their plans, no doubt through some trick of Frollo's.

"Right under your nose, eh?" Denis said. "Well, with a nose that size, I'll bet it's blocked your line of sight before now."

"Ah, Monsieur Denis. . . . You know, I should have expected this kind of duplicitous behavior from the strumpet, but I rather thought better of you, after all the years I entrusted Quasimodo to your care. Still, I suppose there's no accounting for the foolishness a man will commit under the influence of a woman."

"Minister Frollo," the Archdeacon said, "if you really know of an impediment to the marriage, I suggest you state it now or else leave us to continue the ceremony."

"But of course, Your Grace. You are aware, no doubt, of the lady's betrothal to me?"

"I am. But that is no impediment if the lady no longer wishes the marry you. The Church will not force a marriage where consent is lacking."

"I don't want to marry him!" Margaret jumped at the shrillness of her own voice. "And he doesn't want to marry me, for that matter, so I have no idea what he's doing here."

"Ah, but Mademoiselle. . . ." Not even an aristocrat was entitled to teeth that perfect. They were more like polished weapons than teeth. "You forget, or perhaps you never knew, that when your family and mine drew up an agreement for the betrothal, my mother paid your bride price. Two hundred acres of your father's land, if memory serves. The Church may allow the breaking of a betrothal at will, but the King's law will not allow severance until the bride price is returned."

"Then take it. I've got no use for it anyway. I suppose the King already has it, along with everything else my family owned."

"But you see, Mademoiselle, there lies the rub. The King has indeed seized all your father's land, and retains possession of it. Now, tell me, my dear, how am I to release you from your betrothal when I cannot regain the property I gave to you and your family?"

"Frollo," the Archdeacon said, "this is nonsense. You have only to request the lands back from His Majesty - "

"My dear, dear friend. You know what it is to send such requests up through a chain of command. When did Your Grace last speak with His Holiness? Even we who are stationed so high are only foot soldiers compared with the ruling powers."

"Have you even attempted to request what you seek?"

"Of course. And waited many months, to no avail. Which is not to say I have no hope of the future. But until that day comes, the mademoiselle cannot be released from her betrothal, and there can be no marriage to this young man."

"I don't know about that," Denis said. "There's more than one way to release a woman to marry whoever she wants."

"Indeed?"

"The tried and true way. I challenge you to a duel, Minister Frollo. I haven't got any glove to throw down, so you'll have to take my word for it. I want it here, and I want it now."

Margaret squeezed Denis' arm. "Hush, Denis. He might take you seriously. I'd rather give you up than see anything happen to you."

Denis jerked his arm away, and she realized she should have kept quiet. She had wounded his pride, and he rose up even more resolute.

"Monsieur, I had no idea you were trained in the martial arts. But if you wish to vie for the mademoiselle's hand, I'm sure she would be delighted to find herself at the center of such a romantic scene. Would you not, Mademoiselle?"

"I don't want any of this. I want you to leave."

"And he will," Denis said, "when I'm through with him. Just give me a weapon, and we'll see whether a man needs any training to spear an old pike."

Frollo chuckled, his low voice more like the rumbling of distant thunder than human laughter.

Outside, the wind blew stray bits of refuse and great shadows of clouds across the pavement of the Parvis. Margaret thought of the day she was officially introduced to the Minister, the day of the hunt, when she lost her falcon. Denis stood beside her and tested the balance of the sword Captain Malbert gave him. Margaret wondered if he even knew what it was supposed to feel like in his hand.

"Denis, there's still time. He's only tried to stop the wedding. Couldn't we slip away later and be married somewhere else, somewhere they don't recognize us - "

"We can't wait. If we try to leave, he'll be watching for us. He's already been spying, if he knew what was happening today. He's after you, Margaret."

"Do you know anything about dueling?"

Somewhere a pennant snapped in the silence. Townspeople at the stalls began to congregate around the commotion, and windows overlooking the square swung open.

"I don't need training. I want this more than I've ever wanted anything in my life. That and your prayers are enough to carry me through."

Captain Malbert measured out the paces between the two contestants.

"Whatever happens," Denis whispered in Margaret's ear, "don't leave the church doorway."

Captain Malbert's white teeth flashed above his black beard, and Margaret stumbled backwards up the cathedral steps, trembling.

Frollo swung his sword twice with a cool, appraising look. Denis's leg rattled with impatience. Captain Malbert hung his heavy gauntleted hand high above his head, and called out the numbers that brought them each moment closer to the point of attack. Quasimodo joined Margaret and the Archdeacon at the door and tried to look out, but Brother Gatien came to hurry him away.

Malbert's hand fell.

The elegant and calculating figure of Frollo was replaced with a being so vicious, Margaret could only think of demonic possession. Bareheaded, he seemed not less imposing but more like an animal, his gray hair whipping in the wind. Denis, slim and light, darted away from the powerful blow aimed at his neck. He swirled to take his chance, only to find Frollo was just as swift. Metal rang out, and Margaret could see Denis wincing at the unexpected pain from the force that ran down through the blades to his hand. He staggered back, swung again, and was countered a second time.

Then a gust blew Frollo's cape around both combatants, and they disappeared beneath the black. Margaret clutched her face with both hands, and her own nails stung her skin. She noticed nothing but the pain of the scream.


	29. The Eyes of Argus

Author's Note: Poor Denis; it's only a flesh wound, right? Almost to Chapter 30, which will feel like a big milestone to me, seeing how long it takes me to update. Incidentally, I'm pleased as Punch that I've just broken the 2,000 pageviews mark on deviantART-not bad considering pretty much all I ever post there are TC chapters and illustrations. Thanks so much for the support, and thanks for putting up with another long wait!

Musical Recommendation: "Agathon" from "Serenade After Plato's Symposium" by Leonard Bernstein. I've always loved this work, even though it's connection to Plato's text is a little tenuous. Bernstein takes Plato as a mere springboard for his 5-part picture of different loves. This one is the most earnest, a picture of rising passion and devotion.

* * *

In the first moment of agony, Denis thought he could never again experience so much pain. But this moment was followed by another, and then another, deep in his lower leg. With every shudder, he was more conscious of the pain, more offended that nature would not simply allow him to lose consciousness. The knobby surface of the cobblestones pressed into each vertebra of his back. When was the point that men in pain could pass from an unbearable world, at least for a few moments, if not for eternity? If he did not enter oblivion soon, surely any moment now his opponent would send him there.

Here he realized how far he had drifted. He thought for a moment that Heaven had sent an intercessor, one of the stone angels come to life, hurtling down from Notre Dame to protect him. Her voice drifted down from above, clear and commanding. Only when the tone shifted to a plaintive wail did he realize that this powerful protector was in fact Margaret, and already her voice was fading into the distance. He forced his eyes open-his lids moved like shades with rusted hinges-in time to see her struggling in the grasp of Captain Malbert, who dragged her like a mastiff worrying a rabbit. Only then did he remember that they were surrounded by the crowd, and another insane thought flickered through his mind, that none of them could hear Margaret's cries without pity. Then he reminded himself that courage need not flow from pity. The only voice that rose in protest belonged to the Archdeacon, but it remained distant enough that he was sure no help would come from that direction.

The circle was quiet again. Conscious of how pathetic he must look, he rolled over and tried to heave his quivering body from the ground. He craned his neck to look up at Frollo, and recognized the demonically transcendent face of his executioner. Strange how the face of a man in battle could look like the face of a passionate lover (and strange how memories of poor Nicole still appeared to him at the worst of times). Every thought sounded in his mind like the softened thud of a muffled drumbeat, not nearly as momentous as it ought to have been. The cathedral above seemed to swallow the entire scene with its presence, its hundred statues with their hundred pairs of eyes turning it into a silent stone Argus.

"She's watching you," he whispered.

Frollo paused, the light fading from his eyes. He peered up at the cathedral, then over his shoulder at Margaret, as though he couldn't determine which of the two was watching in judgment. He whipped out a cloth from a pouch at his waist and wiped down his blade. That done, he stared at Denis, until the light returned to his eyes. Denis braced himself.

The end came like the blow of a club in his ribs. He rolled over from the impact. But there was no blade. The man who had kicked him turned, put on his hat, and mounted a black stallion, then rode after Malbert. In the midst of the black figures on black horses, Margaret in white stood out like a snowflake on sable. He reached for her outstretched hand. Perspective made it seem as though they touched.

* * *

A servant had brought one of her old dresses, but Margaret refused to take off her wedding gown. She had pulled her chair away from the fire and placed it before the window, which faced Notre Dame. The promise of rain was still unfulfilled, and the clouds had descended as far as the cathedral towers.

They had already caught her opening the window and examining the stone sides of the Palace, after which they had closed and latched the windows, threatening to put her in the dungeons if she got any ideas. Not that it mattered; the surface of the stone was sheer, without a single foothold. She had tried to cry, but it was impossible. Shock paralyzed every part of her body, but periodically the tension snapped, and she caught up whatever was nearest her reach - a chess piece, a cut glass bottle of scent - and hurled it against the wall. At this moment, an ebony chest was the nearest object. The carved wood splintered against the stone. A glass bead rosary tumbled out and rolled to Margaret's feet. Struck with guilt, Margaret took up the beads and sat down. She wanted to intercede for Denis, and she wanted to keep herself from releasing the hatred that burned like a votive before the image of Denis prone beneath Frollo's implacable stare.

Down the corridor, Jambesfolles the greyhound slunk through the shadows, Frollo's hat grasped in his jaws. He had discovered it lying on a chair in the library and taken it hostage. Since Margaret had vanished, some of his allegiance for the Minister had returned, which meant that every article of clothing was fair game for a good chew. He had almost succeeded in throwing the Minister off his trail, when he caught a familiar scent of violets. He almost dropped the hat in surprise. The chase was forgotten, and he nosed his way towards Margaret's door. Whimpering, he rose up on his hind legs and scratched at the locked door. The hat was left on the floor unguarded.

"Wretched beast," Frollo snarled. He turned the chaperon over in his hands, examining it for rips and tooth marks. Then he heard Margaret's prayer above the dog's whimpering. Could it be the girl was finally repenting of her transgressions? Against his better judgment, he unlocked the door. Jambesfolles slipped inside ahead of him and galloped to Margaret, who sat with her back to the door. She stroked Jambesfolles' head but did not cease praying or acknowledge Frollo. She had come to the Salve Regina.

". . . vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra, salve. Ad te clamamus exsules filii Hevae, ad te suspiramus, gementes et flentes in hac lacrimarum valle."

Without contemplating the danger, Frollo placed his hand on her shoulder. "Dear Margaret, you can't know what a relief it is to me to see you humbled thus. Your sins are many, but Heaven cannot fail to hear the prayers of such a contrite heart. I do believe you may be saved after all."

"From you? No, I don't think there's anyone who can help me now."

"Margaret, you disappoint me. That is not what I meant at all."

"Leave me. Please." Her nails dug into the wooden arms of the chair.

"I only came to tell you, my dear, that the boy will surely live. The blade only grazed his limb. I could have struck to kill."

"You are the soul of mercy."

"I did think I might receive some credit from you. I was fully within my rights to take his life. You forget, Mademoiselle, that it was he who implicated my honor. I could not refuse the duel."

"You had no reason to interfere. You don't want my land. I have nothing to give you. Except my misery-perhaps that's what you're interested in?"

"If it should lead to your salvation, it is a necessary purification. But there is another consideration."

"If you mean what I heard you discussing with Captain Malbert, I know nothing of any importance."

"But you know something." He curled his fingers and tightened his grip.

"Something about a boy who told your men that the English are coming here to Paris instead of Calais. That's all. And that you never intended to have mercy on my father."

"There is nothing that could be done. Would you have me lay the city open to invasion, so the enemy and your father can simply sail to victory?"

"I heard what you're going to do. You said you'd prosecute him."

"I have no choice. The law must choose no favorites, Margaret. At any rate, it's quite likely there will be no trial at all. We don't expect him to survive the invasion, you know."

Her hand flew up and landed with bared claws on top of his. He did not even wince.

"I don't hold your anger against you, my dear. I understand this is only an irrational outburst, a reflection of your distress." He smiled in the assurance of his invincibility. This girl would give anything to run him through with his own blade, and she was powerless. She dragged her nails down the back of his hand, watching all the while for some expression of pain. Instead of releasing her, he took hold of her hair and pulled back until her ear was next to his thin lips.

"You realize, of course, that it doesn't matter what you tell me you've heard. I simply can't allow a little mouse to skulk about the Palace overhearing secrets of state and then continue at liberty. One who spies on her host can hardly be trusted to speak the truth."

Margaret squirmed and bit her lip to keep from gasping at the ticklish touch of hot breath inside her ear. "Then why don't you send me to your convent and be done with it?"

"A convent? Hardly a secure holding place for a spy, wouldn't you agree? Even if you do seem to be showing some signs of spiritual improvement. You know, if we could only improve your manners, I do believe you might not be so objectionable a match as I once considered you, my dear."

"The daughter of the man you destroyed?"

He ran the tip of his finger along the edge of her ear. She lunged away from him and covered the side of her head with her hand. "What better demonstration of my mercy than to marry his innocent daughter? That is, innocent in the eyes of all Paris. They would remain ignorant of my real mercy - that I could have you executed as a spy, or consigned to the dungeons. And you, my little wife, conscious all your days that I have spared you, and could revoke my decision at any time."

* * *

Denis woke halfway to find himself lying in the cell he had slept in since Margaret came to Notre Dame. His head seemed to move more often than he willed it; they must have drugged him. The pain in his leg still rose and fell like a wave breaking on the shore. The whole limb was stiff. He wondered if he could be paralyzed. He raised himself and threw the sheets off his body. The entire length of his left calf was bound in white linen, tinged with a faint red stain further towards the heel. The sight was far less extreme than he had expected. He began to fear he was overreacting to a wound that any soldier would have considered superficial - he had not been raised a warrior.

But if that was the case, then there was no need to lie here and convalesce while Margaret suffered unknown cruelties at the hands of Frollo and his men. Denis looked around the room for a crutch. There was nothing. But of course; they would want to keep him in bed until the wound healed, however long that took. He panicked to think they might have locked him in. Gasping and panting to keep from screaming at the pain, he dragged his legs to the side of the bed, then hobbled on one foot to the door.

It was unlocked. He collapsed against the wall in relief. Then he tried to think of some substitute for a crutch, something like a walking stick. It had to be here on the ground level. He would never be able to climb the stairs to his old quarters in the bell tower, which also meant he wouldn't be able to enlist Quasimodo's help. He squinted to focus his wandering, sluggish mind. He couldn't ask the Archdeacon for help in leaving. He would be sympathetic, but implacable, leaning on his crozier -

Denis trembled at the epiphany. As long as he wasn't stealing, and as long as he put it to an honest use, surely it was no crime?


	30. Lapis Lazuli, A Christmas Tale

Author's Note: I know Christmas is over, but humor me; I started this during the Christmas season and wasn't able to finish in time. It goes between Chapters 15 and 17. To recap, Margaret has met Denis, but Lady Agnes is still alive. You can read this part between the above chapters, or just on Christmas - it provides some character development and backstory, but it doesn't fundamentally change the plot.

Musical Recommendation: "Lo, How a Rose E'er Blooming" and "Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence."

* * *

"And furthermore," Frollo sniffed, "those are _English _carols." He stood at the window of Lady Agnes' chamber, his hands like talons grasping the sill. The cluster of peasants in the snow drifts below were belting out "Good King Wencelas" not half a furlong from the Palace.

"Well, you must admit, my dear," said Lady Agnes, "there aren't any good French substitutes for that one. I suppose they're hoping the de Gondelaurier family will let them in for the night. Heaven knows they wouldn't expect anything from you."

"Mother, I think you misunderstand my position on all these festivities. Naturally, it is a time to think of the unfortunate among us. But to reward peasants for reveling on the solemn night of Our Lord's birth, to encourage them to besiege the homes of the nobility - "

Margaret interrupted him with a cry. The embroidery needle had poked her again. She kept getting distracted by thoughts of her conversation with Denis that afternoon, when he joined her in front of the cathedral to watch them building a stage for the mystery play. She had said something about what a thrill it must be to act a part in front of the whole city.

"You know," Denis said, "all the actors wear masks or robes. You can't tell who's underneath all that. If you think about it, there isn't any reason they shouldn't let women join in."

Ever since, Margaret had been scheming how to make this observation to Frollo, preferably with Lady Agnes nearby for moral support. But Frollo's attitude towards the revelers wasn't promising.

"I for one think it's a charming tradition," said Lady Agnes, "and I wouldn't mind some songs brightening up these dark halls for a night."

"Do you honestly suggest that we open the Palace to a lot of cringing, deceitful pickpockets. . . ."

"Well dearest, you could always nail our valuables to the floor. I really don't think any of them would dare make mischief with you around. You forget how fearsome you are to the peasantry."

Margaret's giggle faded into a sigh under Frollo's glare.

"I find your characterization of me offensive, Mother," he continued. "I may be feared, but those who obey our kingdom's laws and those of Our Lord know that I am a just man."

"Come now, darling. You know as well as I that if you invited those peasants into our home, they wouldn't come for all the gold in Timbuktu."

Even the fire seemed to stop crackling and listen. Jambesfolles raised his head from the floor and cocked it at his master.

* * *

The carolers crept into the Palace, so downtrodden they might have been invited to their execution. Even the sight of a minor feast laid out by the Minister's mother did little to restore their spirits. Margaret hovered around them with Jambesfolles in tow. As she scurried across the room, she swept her hands over her dress and patted her hips, as though trying to hide or wipe away the sumptuous blue of her gown. The ex-revelers ate in silence under the stone gaze of their solemn hosts. When even Frollo began to show signs of discomfort, Lady Agnes raised her hand and asked for a song, in her customary tone that made even a request sound like a command. Hats in hand, the men led the tune. Margaret, however, was transfixed by the sight of the peasant women, heads still modestly covered, singing a counter-melody. Their cheeks, once flushed from the cold outside, were now brightened by the warmth of the fire.

"I wish I knew the tune, so I could join in," Margaret remarked to Lady Agnes between songs. "That is, if it's considered proper here in the city." She watched Lady Agnes with the same cautious optimism that Madame Frise used to look into the ovens before baking. She missed Advent preparations at home, where she was free to help in the kitchens.

"In your own house? I see nothing improper in that," Lady Agnes said.

"I just wondered, you see," Margaret continued, "because it seems there are a lot of things we could do in the country that are frowned on in Paris."

Frollo was standing at the window again with his back to the company.

"Of course," Lady Agnes said, "it would be different if you wished to go about in the city and sing like the peasants."

"Oh, yes. Of course."

Soon after, the band was shuffled out to make way for the feast day preparations, and Margaret changed into her most opulent gown for the Midnight Mass. Instead of the banter and gaiety of home at feast days, Margaret was surrounded by silent bustling strangers, each absorbed in a private task. The carriage ride to Notre Dame was bitter cold, despite the fact that she was packed together with Frollo and Lady Agnes, and the carriage was completely closed in upon itself, a dark world isolated from the snow and wind and lights from the houses. On the steps of the cathedral, Margaret felt what an awkward third she must be, a dumpy creature trailing behind the column figures of Frollo and Lady Agnes. Rising above them, the church frowned, bare as a solitary cliff, swept clean by the winds.

The piling snow had not kept the parishioners from venturing out of their homes to bow in the candlelight and chant together the "Kyrie Eleison." Liberated to join in at last, Margaret sang with all that her reedy throat could muster, secure in the knowledge that no one could hear her voice piping in the midst of the crowd. Compared to this, even acting out the Scripture stories seemed liked a paltry game too far beneath her for a moment's contemplation.

At her side, Lady Agnes sung in a voice that had lost its former strength but remained sweet and rich. It no longer soared up to the glass images of the saints but kept at the level of warm living bodies huddled in the pews. She thought of the peasants carolers from the night before, and how she once could have shamed them with her own voice. Once upon a time she would catch the glances of men in church every time she sang. Now her own son was older than those who once looked on her with admiration. No charm or beauty she then possessed now remained. There was only her son. She had given her life to make him her legacy, to uproot the influence of his father, the man he had hardly known as a child, yet the hard cast of the face and the black eyes and even certain turns of phrase belonged solely to Girard, God rest his soul. Yes, tonight she could even pray for him. Christmas Eve was no night to dwell on the injustice of the past. She herself had not been spotless, but all she had she had given for her child, the man at her side.

She bowed with the congregation as the priest raised up the Host, the earthly form of the unchanging One, the perfect sacrifice.

After the echoes of the recessional hymn faded into the shadowed depths of the nave, Margaret went in search of Quasimodo and Denis. Both had taken to sleeping in a downstairs cell with a fire, since Quasimodo began sneezing and sniffling from the cold. But the worktable and all Denis' figures remained in the belltower, and it was here Margaret found them contemplating a tiny creche. Instead of interrupting them, she waited silently at the window.

"Still snowing?" Denis asked.

"What? Oh, no, it's stopped for now. You can see the stars again. Is that the North Star?"

He sauntered up to the window and slipped his head out. "Which one?"

"The bright one just above the Palace of Justice."

"That? No, that's the Evening Star. The star of Venus. Or some say Lucifer."

Hoping to turn the conversation to a more appropriate subject, Margaret returned to the creche. "It's so perfect."

"What?" Denis started. "No, no, it's not finished. We're missing Mary. I'm still trying to finish her in time." He picked up an unpainted figure of a girl in a hooded cloak. Even in miniature, the half-closed eyes and folded hands were distinct. "She's got to be done in time. Quasimodo can't see the play down below. It's too far. So we're going to put on our own play here. Aren't we, Quasimodo?"

Quasimodo looked up from the circle of his castoff gargoyle friends. Each had a dish and a cup, and Quasimodo was helping each of them drink and eat their invisible treats in turn.

"But it's so cold up here," Margaret said. "Wouldn't it be easier to work downstairs?"

"No. Too many interruptions."

Margaret thought of the Archdeacon, the ostiarius, the choir boys and altar boys, all going to and fro. And of course Frollo.

"I saved Mary for last," Denis said, "because the paint is so hard to make."

"What's it made from?" Denis opened a small wooden box. From its rough exterior, no one would have guessed it contained a blue stone more brilliant than the brightest summer sky, veined and flecked with gold. "But how do you . . . you can't get paint out of that, can you?"

"Well, you certainly can't squeeze it out. It's got to be ground up. Quasimodo's getting so strong, he'll be even better at it than I am."

"But you won't destroy it, will you? It's so wonderful. It's more beautiful than a diamond. I've never seen one so fine, except for the one Lady Agnes wears sometimes. Where did you get it? It must be very special to you."

Denis glanced away, and his face became like one of Frollo's inscrutable Greek manuscripts that Margaret had seen in the library. "It was a gift, but it was understood that I should do what I like with it."

Margaret thought of Lady Agnes' stone, and wondered if she might be willing to exchange it for one of Margaret's own emeralds. "I hope you'll wait a little longer. I mean, there might be another way to get a nice blue paint that would do just as well."

"As well as lapis lazuli?" Why, Margaret wondered, did she feel ticklish inside when he smiled at her that way, and when he pronounced foreign words with a slight accent? "Never mind about that old rock. Are you going to ask for a part in the play tomorrow?"

Margaret's insides fluttered again, this time in a less pleasant way. "The - what? No, of course not. I don't know what you're talking about."

Denis grinned. "Bet you I could get the Archdeacon to help us."

"Denis, stop. I don't want to be in any play."

"Oh, that's a shame. Because you see I promised Quasimodo I'd help you get a very special part. He was so looking forward to it."

The two boys pouted in unison, Denis matching his own expression perfectly to Quasimodo's. Margaret laughed and shielded her eyes as from the glory of angels.

"It's all nonsense, and you know it. We could never . . . just think what Frollo would say!"

Frollo himself had not left his post by one of the northernmost columns in the nave, where he waited with folded hands for his mother to finish making her rounds among the nobility. She had hardly coughed once that night. Perhaps his prayers had been answered. Or perhaps they would enjoy a brief respite, only to suffer more cruelly when the sickness returned. The peasants, merchants, soldiers, and nobility filed past him, some bowing, others hurrying on, pretending not to see him in the shadows. Some appeared genuinely too deep in devotion to notice him. He turned his eye to the Cross and tried to cultivate the same spirit. But no matter how he twisted and contorted his soul, it refused to take the proper shape. He was not even fighting, as usual, with thoughts of work or even temptation. There was simply a dark deadness within him, here on the holiest night of the year. Appalled, he felt his knees weaken beneath him. Perhaps if he could go now to the Cross and throw himself on the stones before it, he could achieve the beatific state of humility that was demanded of him. But such hysterics would be most improper for a man of his station.

These reflections were disturbed by the sight of Margaret and Denis talking to the Archdeacon, as though plotting some conspiracy. That wouldn't do at all.

"Margaret!" She responded like a startled deer before the hound. "Come here at once. I won't have you running off again and keeping Mother out late."

Despite similar warnings the next morning, when they all returned for the mystery play, Margaret once again disappeared as soon as he and Lady Agnes took their seats in the pavilion.

"She must not have understood we had a place for her here," Lady Agnes said. "She's probably with that bellringer boy somewhere. I wouldn't worry too much about it."

As if he would worry about that girl. He settled down to enjoy himself; the mystery plays were the only entertainment he could enjoy, as long as they were done properly. A minimum of humor aimed at the groundlings, the right atmosphere of reverence. This was often too much to hope for, but after the scandal and consequent discussion last year, he was looking forward to something more sedate.

The presentation of Adam and Eve went off beautifully. Some impropriety from the Devil was always to be expected, but this year it was tolerable. Any seeds of temptation that might have been sown were duly countered by the presentation of Hell and its horrors. He hoped Margaret and Denis took especial notice of this part, though such hopes were probably too optimistic. When Mary appeared for the Annunciation, he was quite pleased to find that the boy playing her kept his head lowered in humility, so that his face all but disappeared inside the robe. That was most proper, and almost charming, especially the way he mimicked the sinuous movements of a young girl. Not that Frollo had ever thought much about such mannerisms. And when the Nativity Scene was presented, the way this Mary held the Christ child and presented him to Joseph was almost touching. Here, absorbed in the story and finally ignored by the prying eyes of the common people, he could almost feel himself approaching that distant shore he had tried to reach after the Mass.

When the last trumpet of the angels had sounded, he decided to go and congratulate the troupe, and two actors in particular. But when he inquired after Joseph and Mary, the guild members looked at him with uncommon stupidity and awkwardness, and none of them seemed to have any idea where the two had gone. Frollo caught one of them glancing at the church, so he slipped inside.

They were easy to find, "Mary" in his bright blue robe and "Joseph" in his green. They were a strangely absent pair, and scarcely seemed to notice his approach. Something about their languid movements and the strange way each gestured like a mirror of the other prompted him to seek the shadows for a closer look, his soft shoes making no more noise than the pads of a tiger.

The pair was closer than even two friends had any right to be. They were leaning in, their heads turned in opposite directions. Frollo gripped the column, unable to move and cry out at the nightmare scene, the horrific blasphemy. Then he noticed a gangrenous spot of vegetation hanging from the gallery above, and holding on to the string a tiny crouching figure-

"Quasimodo!"

The boy dropped the mistletoe, and the two impostors turned so that Frollo recognized their faces. Margaret, her cheeks red as a holly berry, dashed up the stairs to the belltower, but Denis composed himself and stared back with a repulsive self-satisfied smirk.

"Come to congratulate the players?" he taunted.

"I came merely to confirm my suspicions. That you had once again led that girl astray with your disgraceful misconduct. By rights I should arrest you both for defiling holy ground."

"Oh, give it a rest, will you?" Frollo had rarely seen the boy bristle. "Marg-Mademoiselle just wanted to join in the celebration. Maybe if you weren't always squeezing everyone. You'd better watch out, Your Honor. You squeeze too tight, you're liable to strangle us all, and then you won't have anyone left to squeeze, now, will you?"

"Do not try my patience, young man."

"Do whatever you want to me. Just leave her alone. It was my idea. You know it was. And I pushed her into it. Just promise you won't take it out on her."

"I make no promises to the likes of a - "

" - or do I have to speak with His Grace? He told Margaret it was alright. You're not going to tell her the Archdeacon led her astray, are you?"

* * *

When Denis returned to the belltower in triumph, he found Margaret cowering by the tiny nativity scene.

"You can stay here as long as you want, you know," he said. "I wouldn't worry about Frollo. I told him off. Besides, from the sound of it, Lady Agnes will stick up for you."

"Oh, it isn't that, Denis. But thank you."

"What's wrong, then?"

"It's just - you finished Mary."

"Is that a problem?"

"No, it's lovely. I just-I wanted to help you find the paints. You shouldn't have used your stone for it. And I was so absorbed in getting ready for the play this morning, I forgot . . . you see, I was going to get another one for you. It was selfish of me, to think only of myself, and on Christmas, too."

"No offense, Mademoiselle, but I wouldn't have taken it if you'd offered it to me. That's an awful lot for someone like me to be in debt for."

"No one owes anything for a gift."

Denis wondered if it stemmed from being a member of the nobility, or from being a woman, this inability to understand points of honor for a young man. "Either way, I was glad to put it to use after all these years. And now I don't have to worry about someone stealing it. The paint on a figure's less valuable. The stone itself is all there still, but now I get to see it more often. They say it keeps away the melancholy humors, you know. I could use a little help in that way."

"I just don't see why you had to destroy it."

"Honestly, I prefer it this way. Now it reminds me of someone."

"Really?"

He turned away, and Margaret felt like a supplicant whose audience with the king just ended. She turned to leave.

"I'm glad you got to wear that robe," Denis said.

"It is lovely, isn't it?"

"I always thought blue was your color."


	31. Sauve Qui Peut

Author's Note: Title translates loosely to "Every Man For Himself." Love getting in more historical details. Victor Hugo mentions the river chain in the novel, and you can still see the chain that was stretched over the Golden Horn in Constantinople during the Middle Ages. I'm experimenting with shorter chapters again, in part because that fits the pacing right now, and in part because that might allow me to update more frequently. Thoughts and preferences are welcome in reviews.

Musical Recommendation: "Tempus Vernum" by Enya. Tension builds. . . . Also note the oh-so-appropriate ringing bell.

* * *

In the dark, Bertaut could hardly see the great chain that stretched across the water, blocking the entrance to the city, but the ship was so quiet, he could hear the rattling of the links atop the wooden buoys.

"Dashed lucky the water's rough," Fitzhugh muttered. "I think it's giving your chaps extra time." Both men turned to look at the hourglass held steady against the deck under a sailor's foot. The ship lurched downwards, and the flow of sand in the glass turned to a trickle. Bertaut resumed watching the two towers on either side of the Seine, where the ends of the chain were guarded. Surely by now Abelard and his men had reached the night watchmen and secured safe passage for the fleet. Bertaut glanced up the mast at the flag, waving its fraudulent fleur-de-lys as though ashamed of its complicity. A light shone in a window halfway up the west tower.

"Have you made your decision concerning my proposal?" Fitzhugh asked. He was pretending not to notice the tower light, though all around him had stiffened.

"My answer is the same as before. I will not fight my countrymen."

"Not even for your family's honor?"

The light shifted to the lower level of the tower.

"Whatever choice I make," Bertaut said, "my countrymen will die. But I cannot bring that about through any act of my will."

"Bit of a philosopher, aren't you?"

Oars began splashing in the dark. Below in the water, a rowboat was pulling one end of the chain back on itself towards the opposite tower. The way was almost clear.

"You realize, of course," Fitzhugh said, "that if you won't join our side, we shall be forced to confine you below decks during the next skirmish. In which case, your fate is necessarily bound up with ours."

"And it shall be as God wills it."

Fitzhugh bowed his head. "As God wills it, old boy."

Abelard's boat drew up alongside the _Codfish_. Even as they were raising the smaller vessel out of the waves, Fitzhugh leaned over the side and began to interrogate. "And did you dispatch anyone?"

"We revealed nothing. You are safe."

"Indeed?"

"Have you heard them sound an alarm?"

"Very well. At any rate, we've come this far. There's no wisdom in hanging back now. That boy of yours may already have stolen our element of surprise. Radwell?"

"Here, Sir."

"Escort our esteemed guest back to the lower decks, if you may."

"At once, Commander."

Bertaut fell in line with his captors. Any intentions they may have had to take him by force were abandoned. "Thank you, Commander," he said, "for letting me share in the fate of my countrymen. They are the only men with whom I could die, though I bear you no ill will."

"Oh, nor I, if it comes to that. Best of luck, old boy. After all, your luck is mine now, it would seem."

* * *

Quasimodo paced the rail of the balcony. Since Denis disappeared, the Archdeacon and many of the brothers had tried to make him leave his haunt and join them in the cloisters. This had finally climaxed in Quasimodo raging so wildly that some of the younger brothers, already fearful of the child, fled in the certainty that he was possessed. At last they left him alone to brood among his gargoyles. The cold moisture of the low clouds mixed with the warm tears on his cheeks.

In his mind, his three favorite gargoyles tried to make sense of Denis' departure, one assuring him that his protector would return at any moment, one lamenting that the boy was wandering the streets mortally wounded, and the third musing that Denis had probably already laid siege to the Palace of Justice and given Master a taste of his own medicine. Quasimodo put a stop to that at once and reminded them what a wicked thing it was to cast such aspersions on Master, who surely hadn't hurt Denis at all. It was a terrible misunderstanding.

They apologized, of course, and counseled him to try getting some sleep. But every time he lay down in his cot, he seemed to feel and see his human companions - sometimes Margaret but mostly Denis, as the girl was still a vague presence in his mind. He felt he was already forgetting her, except that he knew she had yellow hair and smelled of flowers and was somewhat smaller than the other grownup people. She was softer for hugs than Denis, who at times felt as firm as the gargoyles (no good for hugging at all, really, though they did their best). But Denis was his Denis, after all, with his smell of fish and the marketplace and all things strange and faraway. And as Quasimodo buried his face in the blankets the strange yet familiar scent overwhelmed him, and he fled the cot, dripping hot tears on the cold pavement.

He tried to distract himself by gazing out over the city but could see nothing until the moon discovered an opening in the clouds. Then the tallest parts of the city were revealed, stretching their white towers and spires out of the shapeless expanse of shadow. He knew every one, even so distorted in the moonlight, except for a cluster of spires rising out of the middle of the Seine. From that distance, he could not discern their movement, but he knew they must be ships.

Ships had been very much on his mind for many days, ever since Master spoke of them.

_Your task is a very great one, my boy. You know that, should a great many ships ever enter the city - as I believe they shall, very soon - it is your responsibility to sound the alarm for the whole city to hear. They, of course, will never recognize your heroism, but the Lord will one day reward all our good deeds at the Day of Reckoning. _

Much of this wasn't entirely clear to him, but he could make out a central theme that ships required bell-ringing. Perhaps Paris wouldn't reward him for doing his job, but Master and Denis would know. Somewhere in the Palace of Justice, and somewhere in the streets of the city below, they would hear and know that he was watching out for everyone. Perhaps even Margaret would thank him on her next visit.

He leapt in the air and grasped the nearest bell rope. Together they fell, then swung upwards. He rang Sophia, Jean-Marie, Anne-Marie, and Louisa-Marie, all in such quick succession that anyone below would have sworn he was helped by his gargoyles. Big Marie he saved for last. He hardly felt the rough fibers in his tiny, calloused hands. His favorite charge seemed mournful tonight, and her deep ringing had never sounded more like a cry sent out over the city to whomever might lend an ear


	32. Chacun Pour Soi

Musical Recommendation: "For Behold, Darkness Shall Cover the Earth" from Handel's Messiah. Ominous.

Author's Note: So much for more frequent, shorter chapters. Back to long chapters it is - that seems to suit my schedule best. Title is an old French version of the saying "every man for himself."

* * *

Margaret could have slept through the bell, but not through what followed. Roused by the clang of armor in the hall, she ran out onto the balcony and peered through the mist at the torches below, glimmering like will o' the wisps in a distant bog. Though she could not yet see the ships, she knew what the commotion meant. Barely able to move her shaking limbs, she stumbled to the locked door and pounded with the desperation of a sailor trapped below decks on a sinking ship. She never stopped to think what she could do if they did release her; she only had to get to the river.

Frollo meanwhile was already riding toward the city wall. Malbert he had left in charge of the artillery farther down the river. It was too late to catch the first few ships; they had already entered the city and would have to be stopped with flaming arrows and catapults. But the bulk of the fleet remained huddled on the edge of the city, within firing range of the cannon.

He had never considered himself a man of war. There was a time he had even trembled at the thought of being charged with the protection of the city while the Minister of War was abroad. But he could never reveal his trepidation. There were too many petty nobles ready to prove themselves the savior of Paris. As he mounted the steps and looked over the crenelated towers and spires of the city rising from the mist, he was reminded once again that Heaven would provide all the courage and skill that he needed.

"Sir?" A lieutenant he did not recognize had sidled up to him. "How long shall we wait?"

"Wait?"

"For the fog to clear. There's a bit of a breeze. It might blow the clouds away, give us a bit of moonlight, a better view of the enemy. As it is, we risk hitting the opposite shore, or taking out the bridges-"

"Homes can be rebuilt. A capitol once taken is almost impossible to liberate. Aim for the river. You'll take the greater part, and those we do not hit directly will founder on the wreckage."

"Ah, yes, Sir, as you wish."

Frollo stroked the biting cold barrel of a cannon as the crew behind him readied the first shot.

* * *

"How much farther to the Isle?" Fitzhugh asked the helmsman.

"About 20 leagues, at this rate."

Fitzhugh bounced on one leg. "I don't like it, docking near a church. If they have any warning, all the civilian types will be rushing for sanctuary and getting underfoot. Wouldn't want them caught in the crossfire; it isn't cricket, you know." In the silent stretch that followed, Fitzhugh assumed the sailor was focusing on his task. But when he followed the dead, stoic gaze of the helmsman, he caught the unmistakable flare in the mist. "Well, perhaps we won't have to disembark for battle after all. Man the cannons, boys!"

The deck rumbled beneath iron wheels. The English cannons were small and light for transport, but they could take down a line of archers and sow confusion. Fitzhugh caught the war gleam in a passing face. No doubt a young soldier, thrilled at the prospect of using the artillery they had brought only as a precaution.

More lights flickered in the darkness, until a dancing pattern began to emerge, of slow and stately torches on deck, punctuated with the comet flares of fire arrows. The battle was invisible and silent, each enemy cloaked from the other. Fitzhugh couldn't help but think of their first confrontation at the Channel. There, each side had been visible to the other but not recognized as an enemy until first contact. Here the enemy was known, but unseen, and until first blood was drawn there was no need for commotion. Each side moved inevitably toward death, as the condemned. Fitzhugh could feel the passion firing his limbs and running into his teeth. He clenched them with joy and grinned.

"A hit, a hit!" someone cried. "Water, quick!" The shot was doused.

"Over here! Pass it along! It's spreading!"

"Send it back to them!"

Fitzhugh gripped the rail as the port side of the ship reared out of the water, propelled by recoil from the cannons. "Not all at once, you rotters!" he shouted. "You'll have us in the drink faster than the enemy!"

Smoke mingled with mist until the men were invisible to each other. Voices called out across the deep and echoed each other in the dark. And then the light began to grow.

The enemy had hit the mast, and the fire was too high to reach. Young Colin, the recruit from Glastonbury, slung a bucket of water over his shoulder and began to climb. Fitzhugh watched him - what a monkey he was, poor, dear chap - make the hopeless ascent.

"It's coming down, lad!" he shouted. "You can't beat it! Let go! I said let go!"

Colin reached the crossbar, and so did the flame. He climbed out and away from the fire, but his perch creaked as the joint was consumed. The men could only watch transfixed as the whole structure leaned to starboard and disappeared in the waves. Where Colin had gone, no one could see.

By this time, the fire had reached the deck and spread in all directions. The men were divided among five different points, each dousing and damping with all their strength, but not one of these smaller contingents was a match for the fires that multiplied every moment. Fitzhugh clamped his head. There was a rumbling and shouting below decks. The prisoners must have heard the commotion and realized their fate.

He grabbed a passing sailor. "You there. You haven't got a bucket."

"Yes, Sir, I know, I was just - "

"Get down below decks and unlock the brig."

"Sir?"

"Look sharp, man! We haven't much time." He cupped his hands and roared over the fray. "Strip your armor, boys! Heavy stuff to wear for a swim!"

* * *

The gypsies were among the first to catch the rumors of the battle. The first reports were dismissed as the ramblings of tavern drunkards. But when Clopin himself brought news of strange ships entering the city, the nocturnal gypsies disappeared down back alleys and inside empty buildings, like birds that sense a coming storm. The King of the Gypsies himself was herding evacuees from the Petit Pont to Notre Dame when he noticed what looked like a crozier poking out of the shadows. He blinked and rubbed his eyes theatrically for the children, who giggled at his antics. Collette held them back as he crept forward to investigate.

He prodded the crozier and heard a moan on the other end. The instrument retreated into the dark like the tail of a wounded animal.

"Halloa!" Clopin cried. "What's this? Surely His Grace hasn't been at the bottle with the common folk?"

He had not. Clopin shook his head and clacked his tongue at the sight of Denis de Moreuil lying in the darkness trying to change a bandage on his leg. The light of the torch revealed a stormy blotch around his eye.

"Still picking fights with the tavern dwellers, are we?" Clopin said.

"Yeah, you know me. Can't leave well enough alone." He groaned as the gypsy unwrapped the botched dressing on his wound. "I didn't think they were so religious, but apparently they don't take kindly to a fellow wandering around with church property. That and I'm easy pickings in this state, I guess."

Clopin pulled a face at the mess beneath the bandage. He closed it back up as though he'd accidentally seen something obscene. "Ah, yes, well, doesn't look so bad. Not by half. I think we'll just take you along to the church - "

"Not there. That's where I've come from. They'll keep me prisoner. I'm going to free Margaret."

"And what sort of scrape has the little mademoiselle got herself into this time?"

"Frollo."

Clopin watched Collette out of the corner of his eye. She was hanging back, pretending not to hear.

"I suppose that goes without saying. Very well, then. You'll stay with us at the Court. I'll come back for you once I've tucked this bunch safely away. Don't you go playing knight in shining armor while I'm gone. Collette? Think you could patch up this young wastrel?"

"Nothing easier. Lie back, Monsieur. You'll find a gypsy-trained physician a sight better at managing the pain. _Voici_, chew this."

Clopin didn't like the thought of leaving Collette, capable as she was, but he liked even less the idea of making her carry Denis back to the Court alone. Not to mention any of the citizens in their group might be spies.

Anyone who saw Clopin marching at the head of his ragtag contingent would have thought him remarkably cheerful under the circumstances. No one could hear the monologue that ran compulsively through his brain.

_As if we haven't got enough on our hands, boy has to keep running after that girl. Un mal et un péril ne vient jamais seul.* She and Frollo. If I didn't know any better, I'd think she liked it. Some connection between the father, and Frollo, and all this mess. Sort it all out if I had the time. No time, no time._

The cathedral appeared in the darkness, lit by dozens of torches. Apparently they weren't the first refugees after all. Clopin proceeded at a slower pace.

"Who goes there?" A spear point glistened mere inches from the tip of his nose. "Gypsies, eh? Get along; there's no room for your kind here."

"_Pardonnez moi_, Monsieur." Clopin disdainfully nudged the spear aside with one finger. "But it is merely your own "kind" I have brought seeking sanctuary. Apparently your comrades aren't the best shots in the world and are making a mess of the Petit Pont."

"Alright then. But we've had a whole herd of you gypsies trying to force your way in to sacred ground, and-"

The soldier choked on his speech. A great bonfire had burned through the veil of mist and loomed over them.

"_Mon Dieu_," Clopin gasped. It was a whole ship alight.

Like insects frightened by the gleam of a candle, the crowd scattered, some towards the church, others running madcap into the Parvis. Clopin spotted the darker faces and jewel-bright clothes of his companions. Those who rushed to the cathedral were blocked by crossed spears, or thrown back and forced to the pavement, even as special paths were made for the citizens to reach the cathedral door.

* * *

The crackling of the flames was joined by the creaking and crashing of wooden beams falling, collapsing in sparks and cinders. Bertaut remained at the trapdoor, calling to his men in the darkness that glowed and burst into color, searing the eyes. Someone had to stay by the entrance and guide them to safety, even if the ceiling was barely able to withstand the flames any longer. Another plank fell, and Bertaut shielded his eyes from the blast. As he stood blinded, he felt the grip of a wiry hand on his shoulder dragging him upwards. Weakened by the smoke, he struggled, but failed to keep his footing.

"Release me at once," he shouted, coughing between every word.

"That's enough heroics for one day, old boy," a familiar voice said. "Kick off those boots. You won't be needing them for this battle."

The damp night air flooded Bertaut's parched, ragged lungs. The deck pitched as though they were at sea, a movement too violent for the Seine. Creaking and groaning filled the air, and one of the cannons came rolling down the deck towards them. Bertaut pushed Fitzhugh out of the way, and together they fell, too far. They were falling through the flames, and through unbearable heat, into the unbearable dark and cold of the river.

* * *

*French equivalent of "When it rains, it pours.


	33. Parade of Horribles

Musical Recommendation: "Nocturne" from the soundtrack to "The Ghost and Mrs. Muir," by Bernard Herrmann, the great film composer. A dark and wistful symphonic melody. You can hear the sound of the waves coming in and out of the beach by night.

Author's Note: She lives! School was almost the end of me. I won't go into the details since no one likes a complainer, but to those who thought I was losing interest in the fic, have no fear. We press on! As for the Bertaut coat of arms, the numbers refer to the squares on a shield, and both the colors and pictures hold symbolic meaning. The red rose represents hope and joy, the greyhound courage and loyalty. Green or "vert" is the color of hope and loyalty in love, blue ("azure") represents piety, and gold ("or") is for generosity.

* * *

The door must have been thicker than she'd realized. The spark that Margaret had transplanted from the fireplace had spread over the door, but it remained intact, glowing like a hellish portal. Margaret took up the poker again and jabbed at the boards. Sparks and splinters fell shimmering on the stone floor. She skipped back in fright, then essayed forth, her strength doubled. She plunged the poker in the growing cracks between the boards, bore down on her implement, and began to separate the softened wood. A chunk fell to the floor and consumed itself. Again she attacked the barrier. Triumph already began to fill her. She seemed to have grasped the secret that once set her apart from people like Denis. She seemed even to feel a kinship with men of trade, with soldiers, and figures of unending strength and endurance. The trembling she would have once called fear became power, an energy that radiated from her chest out through her hands and into the poker, the weapon with which she would beat her path to freedom.

The fire was glowing a brighter red, consuming itself and the fuel that fed it. The door had turned to a black wall of ashes ready to tumble at any moment. Margaret turned from the smoke, breathed deep, and turned to strike the death blow.

She dropped the poker and covered her face with her outer skirts. When she turned back to the doorway, her dry eyes burning with the smoke, all that remained of her bedroom door were a few jagged teeth of blackened wood spotted with embers.

The Palace was emptied of soldiers. Only a few servants stared at her and flattened themselves against the wall as she barreled past. With no time to puzzle out the way and second-guess herself, she came to the great hall by the fastest route. When she saw her adversary, she stopped so suddenly that her slippered feet skid along the polished floor.

She was so close to colliding with Frollo, she could see his only indication of surprise: the center of his eye grew larger, but since his eyes were so dark, the change was almost imperceptible. The poker was still in her hands. Unconscious of the absurdity, she imitated the soldiers she had seen practicing in the courtyard and fell into the en garde position, her weapon brandished.

* * *

Frollo had to bite his tongue to keep from smirking. He regained his composure by drawing himself back and up, like a snake about to strike. Once it was clear the girl had no intention of following through with an attack, he softened his look and folded his hands.

"Under the circumstances," he said, "I don't suppose it would be at all to the purpose to ask how you have managed to come here. Suffice to say I have done nothing but seek to protect you. I fully understand the desperate measures of which you are capable at a time such as this."

Malbert advanced with his hand outstretched, as though he were coaxing a rabid dog. "Here then, my dear. If you'll just drop that nasty-looking old thing - "

Margaret swiped, and the metal poker rang on bone. Malbert roared, more in anger than in pain, and Frollo slipped between the combatants. "Let her alone, Malbert. You'll only provoke her." What he had to say would disarm her more deftly than any move by Malbert. He composed his expression into an even more sympathetic mask. "My dear. I am truly sorry."

She wavered. "Awfully late, isn't it? If you'll excuse me, Your Honor, I refuse to stay under this roof a moment longer."

"You go to find your father? But of course - you couldn't be going to the church."

"Why not?"

"Well, there's no one there who could have any reason to see you. Not after the incident of the alarm and . . . so forth." It was still a new experience to see unvarnished distrust in the girl's face. "I assumed you had heard the alarm. It was rung by Monsieur de Moreuil." She hesitated, no doubt struggling to match the surname with "Denis." "I must say, I have great admiration for the boy's strength of character. Of course he knew what it meant for you, and your father, but one's devotion to the City and one's post must always take precedence. I have no doubt it was that consideration which alone drove him. I would never suspect him of the meanness of avenging himself upon you for his injuries." He appeared to muse. "Come to think of it, he must be considerably recovered to have rung the bells at all. It's a mercy we haven't had him snooping around after you. He's a smart fellow after all; knows his place."

Margaret leaned on her poker as if lamed by this shot.

"I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings - "

"Naturally!" She practically retched the word onto the floor.

"Oh, Margaret," he sighed. "What could I possibly say that would prepare you? I would keep you a moment longer."

She tucked the poker up under her arm, as if by keeping her weapon close she could ward off the revelation she appeared already to have guessed. Frollo gave the nod to the soldier in charge of the shield. The soldier produced it, a simple but sturdy piece of equipment with the Bertaut family crest - vert a red rose in the first and fourth, azure a greyhound or in the second and third. The soldier tossed it in Margaret's direction. It spun and skid over the stones and struck her leg, but she never flinched.

Malbert was trying to throw him a knowing glance. Curse him. If he wasn't careful, he'd end up giving the game away.

Margaret bent to pick up the shield as though it were a wounded animal.

"It was recovered from the wreckage in the Seine," Frollo said. "The rest of the armor was nowhere to be found."

Margaret lay her face against the inner side, between the leather straps.

Malbert, apparently forgetting his wounded hand, tried to approach her, but Frollo held him back. He stepped forward himself. "I have fulfilled my duty by the King and this City, Margaret. If it could have been accomplished without bloodshed, you know I would have done it." He listened for sobs, examined her for any sign of sorrow or anger. She made no response. "I dare not ask your forgiveness, Margaret. I realize that is too much to ask. But I intend to fulfill my duty in all things concerning you, as best I may. Know that I will fulfill my mother's dying wish, and care for you as she always wished me to." He said "care for you" as though pronouncing a sentence, but it was hard not to exult. He exulted over her, her father, even his own mother. By fulfilling the wish she had later denounced, he avenged himself on her completely, avenged himself for the pain she had caused with her secrets and her unholy union with a strange man, for raising Jehan as his true brother, for putting him in such a position that the entire family fortunes and honor had nearly been lost on a ridiculous wager. All this was her fault, and if she could look down upon the results, she could blame only herself for the outcome. Margaret would eke out his mother's penance on this earth, for she in her own way was the cause of it.

He became conscious of Malbert hanging about too close, as though the sight of the girl were softening him. "Let her alone at once," he commanded. "She doesn't want your sympathy, poor girl. Come. She has no reason for bolting now. Let her grieve as she will." With this sop to the girl's womanly instincts, he returned to his post at the head of the triumphant procession, and led out the mass of tramping soldiers and gawking servants.

Margaret was left in a heap of collapsed silk, as motionless as Lot's wife. Jambesfolles crept out of the shadows and lay beside her, his head on his paws.

* * *

"You can't hold me prisoner here," Denis said. "I've already escaped one dungeon today."

"Silence," Collette ordered, "or we will make you a true prisoner. _Helas_, leave the dressing alone! I have not yet made up my mind whether to leave you at liberty or bind your hands, the way you fidget."

"If that's the case," Denis continued, smiling in spite of himself, "you're even more one of them than I realized."

"I'm flattered you think so." She stopped grinding her mortar and pestle and returned his smile.

"All you need is a proper family connection." He glanced meaningfully at Clopin, a stone's throw away in front of an open fire practicing one of his charms, while Esmeralda choreographed her latest dance with the goat that never left her side. Collette followed Denis's line of sight, but its object made her stop stirring the mortar once again. At first Denis assumed she was lost in romantic contemplation, until he saw that her brow was knit. Then a cold drop from the cavernous ceiling of the Court fell on his head, and he made a fuss of shaking it off, which made Collette mother hen him all the more.

"Haloa!" Clopin called. "Giving you trouble again, is he? Shall I club him?"

"Clopin!" Esmeralda cried out, but it was clear she didn't take him seriously.

"So sorry, my good man," Clopin said with the mock-aristocratic accent of a Parisian nobleman, "but you'll have to convalesce a few more weeks at least."

"A few more weeks!" Denis blushed at the pitch of his own shrieking voice.

"Now then, now then. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking of your damsel in distress, presently in the clutches of the vulture of Paris. _Ouis_?"

"Don't talk to me about this."

Clopin sighed, removed his hat, and twirled it while staring into the bowl as though reading tea leaves in its depths.

Denis felt panic seize his chest, despite the special "calming herbs" Collette had given him. "I know what you're thinking, and I won't have it. You can't go in my place on a fool's errand. Not for someone else's friend, when your own people are still locked up in those dungeons."

"She is our friend as well," Collette said.

"You don't think he's put her in the dungeons, do you?" Clopin spoke so softly, he might have been musing to himself.

"_Ridicule_!" Collette snapped.

"A lot has changed in the past day, my dear," Clopin said. "But as long as she is not in the dungeons, freeing one prisoner is not _impossible_."

"It does not matter," Collette said. "She'd never leave her father."

"Her father?" This was the first Denis had heard of Lord Bertaut.

"They say he was taken. Perhaps only rumors." She shrugged. Denis recognized enough of himself in her to guess how worried she really was.

"Well - " Clopin put his hat back on and cocked it adventurously. " - two isn't so many more than one."

"It's twice one," Denis said.

"Yes, _mon amie_, despite popular opinion, I can perform simple arithmetic." He unsprung his long legs and pulled a feline stretch. "But this will take some plotting. Mademoiselle has withstood the old buzzard's company many a season now; she can wait one more day."

The audience was over. Clopin returned to his fire with his back towards them. After a while, Denis saw him fumbling in his pocket for a pouch of powder, which he began tossing into the fire by handfuls. At each toss, the flames turned a venomous green and hissed like a nest of adders. Esmeralda returned to her dancing on the other side. Dragging his wounded leg, Denis crept towards them. He brushed off Collette's interfering hands.

Clopin was talking to himself, and at first Denis tried to listen in for a hint of the plan. But the words were unfamiliar, chanted in a murmuring singsong to the rhythm of the green flares.

The smell from the fire, so much sweeter than natural smoke, burned in the back of Denis's eyeballs and inside the bridge of his nose. Clopin stopped and half opened his eyes. A smile as thin as the edge of a knife blade spread up one side of his face. Denis had known Clopin for many years, almost since he first came to Paris, but this was one of only a handful of times that he could see why so many feared the man known as the gypsy king. He looked away from the face, both so familiar and so strange, and even stranger because familiar. But the more he thought of Margaret and her father, the more he felt at one with his grim friend.

"If that's a good luck charm you're weaving," he said, "don't forget to lay a curse or two in the way of our enemies."

"It's always our enemies I think of first, _mon amie_."

"And get creative. Lightning, or frost, or fire. Or. . . ." His vision had gone completely, and now the smoke was making its way into his brain. "Or let it be the thing he fears and hates the most."

Esmeralda was still dancing. Space and form collapsed, until she seemed to be dancing along the top of the flames


	34. The Great Mortality

Author's Note: Hopefully not all my original readers have lost patience. What started out as "too busy to write" turned into a period of reworking the climax. As many of you know, the closer you get to the end, the less room there is for a misstep. No spoilers, but I think you'll like what's coming.

Also, I think Clopin's appearance in this chapter may have been subconsciously inspired by some of Sak/CanadianRainwater's art on dA. So I guess you could call this chapter a tribute. I thought about translating all the Italian, but that would get annoying. None of it's crucial. You can look it up, but keep in mind that some of it is just Clopin's Italianate gibberish.

Musical Recommendation: "Breath of Life" by Florence + the Machine. Too bad the reviews for "Snow White and the Huntsman" were so poor. Don't guess I'll be seeing it, but the song rocks. "And the fever began to spread, from my heart down to my legs. . . ."

* * *

"I still think a doctor needs an assistant." Collette said.

"We've already settled this," Clopin said. "I won't have you cutting your lovely hair to masquerade as a boy. You'd make a dreadful boy, simply dreadful! And then I would have to look at you that way for months until your hair grew back."

"_C'est ridicule_! As if I care what I look like to you, or anyone." She sidled up to him and whispered in his ear so close that it tickled, and he could hardly refrain from shrieking. "If you don't let me come, I'll cut my hair anyway, and what will you think of that, _mon cher_?"

Clopin giggled and adjusted his mask. The long plague doctor's mask with its white beak was more unwieldy than his harlequin disguise, even without the added bother of a cloak. "Really, _ma cherie_. I did think there was no need for dramatic gestures between us-"

" - you, giving up dramatic gestures?"

"You know what I mean. But really, I won't have you scurrying about and distracting me down there." _And risking your life_. "Is the pendant easy to see?" He lowered his arm so the chain slid down his arm and hung from his wrist, just beyond the sleeve. The red gem of Margaret's betrothal necklace glittered.

"_Oui, repugnant chose_,"* Collette said.

"You say this because it was given by our oppressor, or because it's the reason I don't have to take you with me?"

"Both."

"Ah, well. You can't deny it must have been more than luck, for Simza to dredge it up."

"If somebody threw it in the well, it was only a matter of time before someone would find it, and it's nothing so _exceptionelle_ that you should know the one who discovered it. I suppose you know everyone in the City. Though I was so sick to see it again, I almost think it's cursed. _Peut-etre _I've spent too much time with you."

"I wouldn't doubt it for a moment. Now lie down and try to look a bit more lifeless, _au nom du ciel_!"

Collette groaned and rubbed her forehead with her fist, smearing one of her clay "plague spots" and the dark gypsy color beneath, then threw herself back on the cart. Clopin took up the handles and wheeled her up the Rue Chanoinesse, towards the Palace of Justice.

The guards at the iron gate shrank from their approach. Clopin wished he could always inspire such fear in Frollo's men. It was unexpectedly pleasant, turning the tables for once.

"_La prego di perdonarmi,_" he said, rolling his r's in what seemed to him a very Italian way. A lifetime of roving the country and picking up snippets of foreign languages was about to pay off. "I am Dottore Balthasar, _da Venezia_. I come to Paris to practice the art of healing, and - "

"We can do without the introductions," one of the guards blustered. He stared at the cart. "What are you up to, bringing that here? Looks diseased. You'd better burn it right away."

"Ah, _si, signor_! But this is just what I come for. I find this body close by. You can see it is gypsy. I do not know where I take such news, but as the Palace close by, I thought Judge Frollo would wish to know."

"Gypsy, you say?"

"_Si_. And where there is one such, there will be many more. Especially as so many of these wretched people find themselves in the Palace dungeons."

"Is it, eh, you think it's really the plague?"

"The Great Mortality? Hard to say, without to see the symptoms. But these spots, you see?" Clopin threw his arm around the guard and forced him close to the cart. The great armored man writhed and pulled away.

"Yes, yes, I see, very, um, yes, very upsetting."

"I think perhaps it best to look at your prisoners, to see if any are exhibiting the signs. The plague take hold very, very soon, as you say." He snapped his fingers. "One day man strong and healthy, walking around; next day, the boils, the fever, the, eh. . . ." He waved and rolled his hands to indicate food coming up from the stomach.

"That may be," the other guard said, "but we don't have orders to hire any doctor. If you'll give us your address, we'll do our own inspection and ask our captain if we want to bring you in."

Clopin shook his head and muttered complicated, sing-song noises that sounded to him like Italian. "Always they say this. I see it many, many times. When all is in order and the _medico_ brought in, is too late. Too late. Is great grief to me. I hate to see all men die, where the _medico_ could safe just one or two." They waited in silence at their impasse. "I tell you this. You bring me for quick inspection, see all prisoners, and I tell you if I need come do careful look again. First inspection is free. No argue with that, eh?"

The guards shifted and shrugged at each other. The larger of the two nodded. "So long as you'd submit to being searched and remain in custody at all times."

"_Naturalmente_! But I cannot consent to the take off the mask. Is very dangerous, you know."

"And not let us see your face?"

"Ah, _mio Dio_. They do not realize danger, going down to place where plague is growing, spreading among all men."

"What about us? We'll be down there without masks."

"Oh, if is plague in _palazzo_, you probably already dead men."

It took time to convince the guards that they did not have to dispose of Collette's "corpse." The dottore had a very special method for minimizing the spread of disease when bodies were burned. Otherwise the contagion would rise with the ash and blow all over the city. He stowed Collette just inside the gates, in the back of the Palace where no one would come into contact with the disease. Then all three walked under the toothed portcullis and into the darkness, where the shadows blinded them until their eyes adjusted.

Clopin was glad that his guides were so taciturn. Most likely they were sobered by the double threat of plague and trouble from their superiors. This allowed Clopin to focus on memorizing the passages as they went, just in case. Whenever they stopped to unlock a new door, he imagined their whole course up to that moment, and if he had time, replayed each move in reverse. The descent was abrupt. Already the air felt cooler, yet damp, making his heavy robes cling to his skin.

The lieutenant at the entrance to the dungeon took more persuading than previous guards, but he relented once Clopin displayed his powders and poultices with much long-winded explanation ("These are the belladonna. You put the teeny, tiny bit on the lips and tongue. Your man slip away in the deep fever, this bring him back. Is shock to system. Too much, of course, and. . . ."). He spread his cloak wide and allowed them to pat his whole body. One of them prepared to take the necklace.

"_Mio Dio_, I must protest," he said. "Is very important. Special charm, blessed by the Abbe de Fontenay, for to protect against the plague." As a mere pious charm clearly posed no threat, the guards graciously relented.

Then began the tedious, tricky business of stopping at each cell and peering at the haggard occupants. Clopin had not prepared himself for the task. He had focused so much on finding Lord Bertaut, he had not thought-or had avoided thinking-about the other prisoners he would see. Not all were gypsy, thank heaven, but the numbers were far disproportionate. It was better for them, and safer for everyone, that his face was hidden, but seeing them and being unseen increased his guilt. Perhaps he had done wrong, relenting to Collette after the reports came that Lord Bertaut was alive. Was he doing right by saving one, or doing wrong by leaving all the others? Men, women, children barely old enough to be arrested for their supposed crimes, and children too young even to be accused of pick-pocketing slid by his view. These younger ones must have been born here, or else dragged in along with their parents. He realized that he had to move more quickly by these cells, or he would be overwhelmed.

Lighter faces began to predominate, along with eyes that flashed pride. He had reached the prisoners of the recent battle. He took his time here, let his arm swing until Margaret's pendant flashed in the torchlight. It was difficult at times to tell whether he had found his man, or whether he was merely arousing casual interest. Collette had given him some general description of Lord Bertaut, but searching for a muscular man with a light beard was almost as bad as searching for a man wearing red in a group of cardinals, especially as none of the men were shaving their chins in prison. He stopped at the end of another hall and waited for the guards to open the door.

"Well?" one of them asked.

"Ah, _come_?" Clopin said.

"Will you be coming back?"

"Eh, is this all men in prison?"

"Yes. Well, there's the two captains they took, but they're farther down. Kept separate from everyone else. We're under strict orders to allow no one in. Since they're locked up alone, they couldn't be spreading anything."

"Oh, ah, but this is very important. They could have caught the disease on their way down, and spread to guards who watch them."

"Catch it just walking past the others?"

"Is very, how do you say, catching."

The guards began to argue, with two for sending the doctor away until they had spoken to Captain Malbert, and two for a slight breach in protocol, if it would save them all from an epidemic. At last, the two on the doctor's side gave their word to take the blame for any trouble. These two led the way through three locked doors, the first two of wood, the last of iron.

"The ages of man!" Clopin exclaimed.

"What?"

"The last are of silver and gold, I suppose?"

The guards stared at him. Clopin sighed with impatience at their ignorance. "Do no one read Aristotle in this God-forsaken country?"*

The hall they entered was lit by a single torch. Clopin tried to pretend that he didn't recognize the hideous smells. He stuffed a few more herbs into the beak of his mask. He hadn't expected the disguise to come in so handy.

The first captain must have been the Englishman. He was slight and dark-haired. He barely acknowledged them from his cot in the shadows. The second man fit Collette's description. He was broad, and must have been a giant in full armor, with a light beard that would be gold in sunlight, but looked red in the dim torchlight.

"This man look very, very bad," Clopin said, and wished he sounded more convincing. The Frenchman looked much heartier than his compatriot in the next cell. He even rose and approached the bars.

"What's this all about?" he asked in the hoarse voice of a thirsty man.

"Plague inspection," one of the guards snapped.

Clopin raised a finger to his beak and allowed Margaret's pendant to swing out of his sleeve.

"What's that?" Bertaut asked. He was so close, Clopin could hear the change in his breathing. "Where'd you get that?"

"This interests you? Perhaps you like to inspect it?"

"Don't let him touch anything," said a guard.

"_Prego, signor_, I believe I know what is safe to do with victim of the plague. Is holy, this pendant. No plague touch it."

Bertaut was examining the back of the pendant. His lips moved as though he were reading silently. "_Mon Dieu_." His voice quaked.

"_Ahime_, the fever must be very bad. I see this man already begin to have the hallucinate. I must enter and do full inspection. No, no charge, _gratuito, si, si_." He walked Bertaut to the back of the cell, so the guards would be safer from the contagion. He began muttering to himself in gibberish, but tossing in some French with a heavy Italian accent. "_Mi sio della morte_ Margaret's _ralizie digare_ you recognize?"

"Margaret? You know my daughter?" Bertaut's voice cracked.

"_Si, signor. Vizi_ her jewel."

"This? This doesn't belong to my daughter."

"_Que_?" Clopin froze. "No, no, mistake, eh, _perhapzi_?"

"It is not my daughter's."

"But, ah, _per iglio_ how recogniza it?" He looked as busy as he could, rummaging through his pouch of herbs.

"It belongs to another woman. A woman I once knew. Never mind. When you come back, I'll tell you. Not with them standing there."

Bertaut was talking too much, looking too intense and coherent. Clopin turned to the guards again. "Very bad. The fever is very bad. He talk _molto _crazy. Very sick. Probably die next day or two. You see." He turned to Bertaut and wished the man could read the message from his eyes. All he could do was emphasize the words. "To _die_."

Bertaut stared back, then dropped his shoulders and lowered himself to the floor. Clopin patted his shoulder, then slid his hand down Bertaut's arm and slipped him a pot of the pink clay they had used to form Collette's boils. "_Non abbia tentennamenti, signor_." He called to the guards. "You tell your Captain, this Bad-ber"-(his translation of Malbert's name)-"that I come back tomorrow for corpse. Will not be long. Bring good herbs for clean out prison."

"Think you ought to take him right away?"

"You idiot," another guard said. "He says it's a day, we'll wait a day. See if this plague really takes hold. . . ."

Clopin felt Bertaut clutch his hand.

"The pendant," Bertaut rasped. "You said it's holy? Leave it with me. For protection. Please."

Clopin had once seen a tree come down on a man who was too frightened to move from its path. He now saw again the same wild fear in Bertaut's face. He dropped the pendant in Bertaut's hands, cupped to receive the necklace like a benediction.

"_Dio ti benedica_."

* * *

*"Disgusting thing."

**The ages of man is actually a concept from Hesiod, although Aristotle might have alluded to it. I suspect Clopin is just name-dropping to sound educated.


End file.
